Continuations That May Never Be
by drakensis
Summary: I've left an unfortunate number of stories that aren't completed. In some cases I have a substantial number of scenes written that weren't fully worked into the narrative. Since it seems a shame for them never to see light of day... here they are.
1. Here's Your Accordion

**A/N**: Let's begin here. _Here's Your Accordion_, a Buffy the Vampire Slayer SI fic, written when I was younger and thought I was much cooler than I actually was.

* * *

In every generation there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.

.oOo.

"Willow!" I called as I saw the girl ahead of me in the corridor. I hadn't seen her last night, since she went home right after finishing up some project at the library – I wasn't sure exactly what said project was, but it had Giles in a snit, so I'd stayed clear until it was all done. "Hey, wait up a moment."

It only took me that moment to reach her through the pack of students, although she didn't wait. "Willow? Buffy to Willow come in, over?"

"Oh!" she squeaked. "Buffy, I didn't even see you."

"Indeed?" I said solemnly. "Serious thoughts on your mind, girlfriend. Always in motion your thoughts are… since last night, I sense."

Willow stared at me. "That's amazing. Is that your -" She lowered her voice. "- Slayer senses?"

I grinned. "No. I tried calling you last night, but your line was always busy. That plus your current distraction… well just call me Sherlock."

She smiled again, shyly even by her standards and hid her face from me as she opened her locker. "Well… I sort of met someone."

"Someone?" I asked. "Must be quite a someone. When did you meet… him?" She nodded. "Him." I hmmed. "Fess up, Willow."

"Last week when I was doing the scanning project in the library," she said, closing up the locker.

"Oh, someone from the project?" I asked. "But you'd not met him before, or not met him as in girl meets boy anyway…?" Oz was vaguely around although I don't think he and Willow were close until next year. He was in computer science classes too so he might have been in this project of hers.

"Oh, Malcolm's not at this school," Willow said, obliterating that theory. "He's very nice."

"A very nice young man. In Sunnydale? Wow, I can see why you're keeping this under your hat."

"Well I wasn't sure there was anything to tell," she admitted as we walked towards her next class, speeding up to a near babble of enthusiasm. "But last night, oh! We talked all night, it was amazing. He's so smart, Buffy, and, and he's romantic, and we agree about everything!"

.oOo.

"Uh, Willow," I said carefully. "I'm glad you've met a nice guy, but remember: this is the internet, where men are men, women are men, and children are FBI agents waiting to get you. Try to find out a little more about him before you fall head over heel -"

"'I'm thinking of you too!'" she bubbled, looking at the screen. "No, that's incredibly stupid!"

"And last night I visited the tutti fruiti men from Jupiter," said I, testing the theory that she wasn't listening to me at all.

"Wait, what?" she asked. Theory, failed.

.oOo.

"I need to speak to the Principal," Dave insisted.

"He's dead, Dave," I said.

Geek boy paled. "Dead?" he squeaked.

"Why don't we talk about that," I said very evenly.

.oOo.

Now, as you might imagine, during my thus far short but successful career as a vampire slayer I have encountered many terrible things and endured many awful experiences. In fact, I may have mentioned one or two of them to you. Thus I felt a great swell of sympathy for Giles as Cordelia tried to sing.

Now, I admit there's an element of throwing stones here – I can't carry a tune in a bucket. When I tried to join the choir at school when I really was a kid, I was granted the awesome responsibility of turning the pages of music for the teacher at the piano, on the condition I kept my mouth shut. But that just means I have _experience_ of bad singing. And Cordelia was really really bad.

"Thank you, Cordelia," Giles managed with a straight face. "Tha-that's going to be lovely."

"But I didn't do the part with the sparklers!" she protested.

"And well you shouldn't," I called from behind Giles, startling him considerably. "Burning down buildings is my gig, Cordy and you should be _ashamed_ of yourself for trying to steal it." Then I smiled sweetly. "But never mind, I'll forgive you."

Cordelia glared at me. "Don't you have a damp rock to hide under, Summers?"

I grinned and brandished a book. "Uh-uh. I'm here for the talent show."

"We'll save the sparklers for the dress rehearsal, Cordelia," Giles said placatingly. "Uh, Lisa! Your turn!"

Cordelia flounced off the stage and Lisa came on with a tuba. "So, how's life as the great producer?" asked Jesse as he and Xander sat in the row behind Giles. Willow had taken a seat in front and to one side, so I sat next to Giles.

"Had to see this to believe it," Xander added.

"Oh," Giles responded in a dispirited voice. "Thank you."

"Not going well?" I asked. "How'd you get stuck with this?"

"Our new Fuhrer, Mr. Snyder," the librarian replied.

"I think they call 'em 'Principals' now," Willow teased him.

Giles grunted. "He thought it would behoove me to have more contact with the students. I did try to explain that my vocational choice of librarian was a deliberate attempt to…" He sighed. "Minimise that contact, but, uh, he would have none of it."

"Unto every generation is born one who must run the annual talentless show," Jesse pontificated. I chuckled somewhat reluctantly. It was fairly funny after all, even if it was picking on Giles. Hardly sporting, really.

"If you had any shred of decency, you would have participated, or at least, um, helped," Giles retorted.

"Why Giles," I said in surprise. "Whyever do you think I'm here?"

Jesse looked puzzled. "I thought we were here to watch."

"And mock," Xander added.

"And laugh," Willow concluded. The three of them laughed.

I waited for them to finish. "Well I'm certainly going to have a go. I admit I wasn't planning to offer help, but if there is something you need a hand with…"

.oOo.

I've really got to get some sort of Batsignal that Giles can send me anytime he discovers there's an unexplained corpse on campus. Or an explained corpse for that reason. Of course, if Xander and Jesse picked it I'd be wearing a little coffin-shaped wristwatch that vibrated every time Giles pressed a button in the library, so I really shouldn't mention the need to them.

In this case, the scene of the crime was the girl's locker room again. I felt quite nostalgic. That was the first place a dead body turned up when I arrived in Sunnydale. Somehow when random students die on TV it's not quite the same as realising that wherever I am in relation to home includes parents to mourn the girl who died and classmates who get just a little more jaded and indifferent to each other every time a seat opens up in class. Why make friends with someone when there's a very good chance that they'll wind up dead by the time you graduate. Save yourself the emotional pain by not getting involved.

Damn, I'm getting maudlin. I don't need this.

"It was Emily," Giles reported once he'd gotten clear of the police tape across the entrance to the lockerroom.

"Emily?" Willow asked in a small voice. "Dancer Emily?"

"Oh man! I hate this school," Xander protested.

"Yes." I'm not sure whether it was Jesse or I who spoke first and we shot each other bleak glances as the conversation continued.

"Uh, it must have happened just after, uh, dress rehearsals," Giles told us. "There was a cross-country meet at Melville. She, she, she never showed up for it."

"Was it a vampire?" Jesse asked seriously.

Giles shook his head. "Um, I think not."

"Because…?"

He sighed. "Her heart was removed."

"Yikes!" Willow exclaimed.

"Exotic," I conceded. "Any particular reasons for that springing to mind?"

"Uh, there are various demons which, which feed off human hearts," Giles said, looking back at the locker room where a knife I took to be the murder weapon was being bagged by the forensics team. "But…"

"They wouldn't want or need to use a knife?" I suggested.

"Precisely. I don't suppose your dreams are coming up with anything?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Nothing since last time. All I have is jigsaws. Make of that what you will."

"Well if they used a knife then I guess we're probably talking about a human," Jesse said. "All together now:"

"I _hate_ this school," Xander, Jesse and I chorused to Giles and Willow.

"The evidence certainly points to a human culprit," Giles agreed.

"Let's not jump to any conclusions though," I cautioned. "Remember Amber? We thought spontaneous human combustion…"

"And it turned out to be a witch," Willow ended. "So you think it could be demon?"

"We're on the Hellmouth," I shrugged. "Right now I'm not ruling out little green men from Mars. Human is probably a good option but it wouldn't hurt to keep our options open. What if a demon is using a knife to try to conceal supernatural involvement? By the laws of averages there have to be _some_ Demons with IQs above room temperature."

.oOo.

There was a knock on my doorframe and I looked up from my book to see Joyce aka 'Mom' walk in. "Hi, hon. How's it, uh, going with the talent show?"

I shrugged and closed the book. "Apart from the general lack of talent in the school? Not so bad. I don't know how well Willow will manage though. She gets stagefright apparently."

"Oh?" Joyce asked. "What's she going to be doing?"

"A dramatic reading," I said as Dawn joined us. "Her, Xander and Jesse are doing it together – on orders from the new Principal. Xander said they were doing that because it wouldn't actually require them to have any talent."

"It can't be that bad!" Joyce laughed. "I, for one, am looking forward to seeing your act."

"Me too," chimed in Dawn.

"You're going?" I said, slightly surprised. "It might go on a bit late," I pointed out with a nod to Dawn.

"Well, Dawn's grades have been good so she deserves a treat. And we wanna support what you're doing."

"How is seeing me singing going to be a treat," I asked mildly. Then I saw her smirk and the penny dropped. "Ah, you're expecting to see me fu… er, _mess_ up?" Joyce glared at me for the slip. "I'll do my best to deny you that," I warned my sister, with an affectionate grin.

.oOo.

"You know," he said. "With everything that's been going on recently, I'm not sure how safe it is for a girl like yourself to be here… alone."

"Well, with everything that's been going on not-so-recently, I'm not sure how safe it is for a teacher like yourself to be here… alone," I replied. "Losing two Principals in a single month would be dreadfully untidy."

Snyder stared at me, then nodded slowly. "Alright then," he said and walked away.

"Now what's gotten into him?" I wondered out loud.

.oOo.

I couldn't see all that much out in the crowd as I stood on the stage. As you may have noticed, I've inherited most purely physical qualities from Buffy… not those ones, you perves… well, not just them. Ahem. Anyway, one of those is singing – which I had no voice for prior to winding up in bleached-blondeland.

So there I was, holding a microphone stand in one hand, looking out into a crowd that I mostly could not see. The music was playing on a tapedeck behind the scenery at the side of the stage, feeding into the sound system. Now all I had to do was remember the lyrics.

~"Could you ever steal a prayer to deny your God / Could you ever buy your love and not count the cost / Could you ever take a life when all was lost / And would it ever be enough?"~

The song wasn't written for a woman to sing – but that just meant that I was making it my own. So there I stood, trying to remind myself that slaying vampires was far more frightening than the rather sizeable audience. I'd probably have felt considerably less vulnerable if Joyce hadn't dug out something she said was suitable for torch-singing. I'm not sure what torch-singing was, or why she thought a Def Leppard song fell into that category but I was quite sure that pretty as the dress was, I must look fairly foolish in it. Xander and Jesse both seemed to think so, they barely took their eyes of me, and it would take something fairly outlandish for them to react like that to little old me.

~"Could you bite the hand that feeds you, then ask for more / Could you kiss the wound that bleeds, spit it on the floor / Could you open up your heart, then close the door / And would it ever be enough?"~

At the back of the room, I saw a door open, spilling light into the aisle. Standing in the light was a dark-haired man… no, not a man. A vampire. Angel stood there, watching me sing and I could almost swear that I saw a tear on his face.

~"Every word you whisper / All the tears you hide / You die for love when it's alive / But where does love go when it dies?"~

The door closed again, and I wondered if I had even seen Angel for that brief moment, staring at me as if saying goodbye to what I could not, would not give him.

.oOo.

Now back when I was in my cheerleading phase – _my_ cheerleading phase, as opposed to Buffy's cheerleading phase – Xander had mentioned the possibility of someone using magic to mess with kiddie league baseball. Gee, it's almost as if someone was foreshadowing, wasn't it?

Now I might not be able to pick 'Lucky Whatever his number was' out of a crowd, but I was pretty damn sure I didn't want to be facing my fears – I'm afraid of them, dammit!

Which meant I'd made a habit of attending kiddie league baseball matches for the last couple of months – accompanied by a bag full of books (because baseball, frankly, bores the hell out of me) and by Jesse, who genuinely _was_ interested in the sport.

Today, if the numbers on the board meant what I thought they meant, the game was pretty close – it had gone into extra time, or whatever the correct term was.

"Come on, Lucky Nineteen!" shouted the coach.

Oh ho! My ears picked up and I closed my book around the playing card I was using as a bookmark. "Important pitch?" I asked.

Jesse sighed. "I don't know why you attend every game if you're not going to pay any attention." Then he groaned as the kid with the bat missed. "Aw c'mon – that was an _easy_ pitch. _Easy_."

"I think that the coach agrees with you," I said, watching the man's face turn an interesting colour as he ushered the rest of the team towards the dugout. "Follow me."

"Where are we going?" he asked as he followed me down from the stands.

"I want to check on something."

.oOo.

"Uh, Buffy?" Jesse asked. "What are we doing?"

"You saw the kids when they came out of the locker room," I asked glancing apparently idly through the window of the small building that serviced the baseball pitch. It looked a lot like a scout hut near my home back when I wasn't Buffy, but wasn't as well maintained, so I could barely see through the window.

"Yeah?"

"Did you see number nineteen?" I asked, as I dropped from the high window and went to the back door.

"I don't think so," he replied. "I wasn't looking. Why?"

I tested the handle. Locked. "I was looking. And I didn't see him leave."

"So? Hey, what are you doing with that?" Jesse demanded as I pulled out an improvised saw – actually about three inches of saw blade with a simple handle, that I'd kept in a case in my bag for a while in case of situations like this.

"I had a weird dream, a few weeks back," I said as I applied the saw to the bolt of the lock – it was brass – no match for the high-quality saw and Slayer muscles. "A kid, badly beaten, and a baseball shirt. Plus, I can hear the coach in there and he's sounding pretty ticked off. Now I'd like to think there's nothing to it…"

"That was an _easy_ pitch, you worthless little brat," I heard from inside the locker room. I sawed faster. "How am I supposed to win with a little piece of shit like you!?" The bolt gave way and I pulled the door quietly open.

The coach was looming over his luckless player, baseball bat in hand. They were both too engrossed in their little drama to notice as I entered the room, Jesse beside me. I gestured for him to keep quiet as we advanced down the length of the room.

"All you had to do was _hit_ the _ball_!" the coach shouted. "_Just_… _like_… huh?"

The 'huh' was because the bat stopped moving a few inches into the arc that would have brought it into contact with the kid's head. He pulled harder, to no effect. It would have been funny if it wasn't for the circumstances. When that didn't work he turned his head and saw my hand on the bat, holding it still. One hand, while he was tugging it with both of his. Turning his head further, revealed me, with Jesse looming behind me. It's surprisingly helpful having someone tall backing you up.

"It's not what it looks like," he tried. "I was just trying to scare him!"

I looked down at the kid, who was trembling. "I would say that you succeeded."

Jesse tapped me on the shoulder. "Buffy, could I see that bat?"

I took it from the coach's hand and passed it back.

Jesse swung it a couple of times in the air. "Nice bat," he said conversationally, then looked at the kid. "Yours?"

He nodded nervously.

Jesse smiled and passed him the bat. "How about my good friend, Buffy here, walks you back to your dad," he said lightly. "I want to have a little chat with your coach, 'kay?"

.oOo.

"You know," I said casually as Jesse and I left the baseball grounds. "That's gonna to be one hell of a black eye you'll have in the morning."

"Uh-huh."

"And your knuckles look pretty scraped up," I added.

"Yeah," he admitted. "But you shoulda seen the other guy."

"I _did_," I replied. "Good job, by the way."

"Thanks." He grinned at me. "So, you gonna keep coming to the games now?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. I guess it keeps me out of the house and out of trouble."

"You don't count that as trouble?" Jesse said in surprise.

"Well," I grinned. "We didn't get _caught_, did we?"

.oOo.

"Ugh!" Cordelia sneered. "Behold, the weirdness!"

They'd been standing outside the Library when I left carrying a bag full of vampire hunting gear. Naturally, with all the Slayer grace and natural luck that I have, I walked straight into Cordelia's current boytoy and dropped the bag, spilling its contents all over the floor.

"Yo, Cordelia, who's the virgin sacrifice?" I asked brightly. "He was a virgin, wasn't he… before you got him I mean. Or are you buying secondhand these days?"

"Cordy never buys secondhand," Harmony said in what she probably thought was a quelling tone and then looked confusedly after Mitch as he freed himself from Cordelia and left in a huff.

Cordelia's face was icy. "You're a headcase. No one does that to me."

"Did you say something?"

If looks could kill…

.oOo.

Unfortunately for peace and tranquility between Cordelia and I, there wasn't really much time for her to calm down because we shared English class the next period. We were discussing The Merchant of Venice, which I'd had to plough through back in my own original school days. I hadn't particularly enjoyed it then either but Cordelia really seemed to be emphasising with one of the characters… well, as much as Cordelia emphasised with anyone.

"'If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?'" The English teacher, Ms. Miller, stopped reading and looked up at us. "Okay, so talk to me, people. How does what Shylock says here about being a Jew relate to our discussion about the anger of the outcast in society?"

"Well I totally get what he's talking about!" Cordelia declared forthrightly. "He's got his status to think about!"

"Uh, would you care to elaborate on that?" asked Ms. Miller.

"Yeah. Antonio's been making all these verbal digs at Shylock and he's acting like there's nothing Shylock can do about it, but now Shylock can touch him and if he doesn't it makes everyone think that he's as helpless as Antonio was assuming."

Ms. Miller nodded. "Well, Cordelia's raised an interesting point here. By defending his right to strike back at Antonio, Shylock is putting himself on the same level as Antonio within Venice society, whereas Antonio had been putting him down."

.oOo.

"Morning," I called to Giles as I walked into the library. We'd fallen into the routine of me reporting each morning on the evening's slayage. Okay, I didn't report every tiny little detail... that Vampire fraternity had the better part of three grand stashed and if my Watcher doesn't join me on patrol then he isn't gonna get a cut of the proceeds.

I glanced around at the library, which was in a bit of a mess as a result of the earthquake. Either that or Giles had hosted a rave last night. I eyed a couple of cracks in the floor. "Ouch, got some structural damage here, Giles. Is it safe to be in here?"

"Buffy!" Giles exclaimed from the cage. There was an odd tone of relief to his voice.

"Hi Giles!" I said brightly. "You getting enough sleep? You look kind of ragged."

"Um... I-I-I've been working," he said. "And yes, we're safe. But probably best not to go up there," he added, pointing at the stacks.

"Right," I agreed. "What's the cause of the late night? Some new news on the Hellmouth? 'Cuz the vampires are getting pretty feisty – one of them was practically on campus when I staked him."

He frowned and opened another book. "Their numbers are increasing."

"You're being awfully blasé about this," I told him. "You know something, don't you?"

"Uh, I-I need to verify, um..." he weaselled. "I just can't really talk right now."

I frowned. The only big deal that Buffy had had to deal with by the time of the Spring Fling was the Master breaking loose. Of course, I wasn't following any half-pint vampires anywhere so...

The bell rang. "Look Giles, I've gotta get to class. You've got until I get back to verify or whatever but I want chapter and verse. If there's trouble then I need everything you've got and you are _not_ gonna hold out on me."

Giles had a troubled expression on his face as I turned and left.

.oOo.

"I miss Dr. Gregory," I complained as we left the Biology class. "I'm sure his lessons weren't that boring."

"I don't think that boring covers it," Xander said.

"Couldn't we do something more interesting? Like watch grass grow?" added Jesse. "That's biology too."

Willow sighed. "Even I was bored. And I'm a science nerd."

"You're not just a nerd," I said. The blasted girl kept putting herself down like that. If she'd just show a little confidence she'd have Xander wrapped around her finger by now.

"I'm not ashamed. It's the computer age, nerds are in." She paused for reassurance. "They're still in, right?"

"Absolutely," I deadpanned. "Even I can hardly resist your charms."

This was apparently not quite the right thing to say as Willow blushed, while Xander and Jesse took a quick trip to what must have been an interesting mental image. Actually... No, no. Bad Buffy.

"Ah," Xander recovered first of the two of them, which slightly surprised me, since Jesse (as far as I could tell, anyway) was still focused on Cordelia. "Willow, don't you and Jesse have a thing?"

"A thing?" she asked, sounding puzzled, then her eyes widened. "The thing! That I... we have!" She latched onto Jesse and pulled him off away from the bottom of the stairs. "Which is... a thing that we have to go to."

Jesse, stirred back to drab reality, managed a wave and a "Good luck, man," before Willow towed him out of sight.

Um, what? "What's got her babbling? Did I scare her off?"

"Nah, she's Willow," Xander laughs. "So, uh, Buffy. I wanted to, um, there was this thing I wanted to ask you..."

"A thing?" I asked and grinned, "like that thing Willow needed Jesse for?" Sounds familiar somewhere. So what episode was it? It's a pain accounting for how Jesse affects all the interactions but it's better than the alternative. "What's up?"

"Uh," he gestured towards a bench. "Let's go over here and sit."

"Okaay..." Xander doesn't get this nervous over an apocalypse. What could he be working up to – oh. Oh crap. Oh shit. Now I knew what was going on. Oh hell.

Where was an apocalypse when I need one? I can cope with those. This was romance. Mushy stuff. Hearts of glass wrapped in thick towels and other weird imagery. I was pretty sure I was gonna hurt someone. I was flailing mentally for a way to do this that wouldn't make a phenomenal mess out of all my friends while Xander drove off the occupant of the bench for us to sit down.

"So, what's the what," I asked. Why can't Angel turn up with bad news... oh yeah, daytime. Rotten vampire. Can't count on him to do anything right.

"Um... you know, Buffy, uh, Spring Fling is a... time for students to gather and... Oh, God!" He took a breath. "Buffy, I want you to go to the dance with me. You and me, on a date."

Well that was up front enough. I can't blame him for being nervous. I would be. I guess I could blame him for me being nervous though.

Dammit, I _like_ Xander. He's a good guy. Hey, Dawn likes him, so does Mom. Was there really a good reason not to say yes?

I didn't know.

That scared me.

I put one hand on his shoulder. Whatever I was going to say, I didn't want him running off. "Xander, I..."

"Buffy, I like you. A lot. And I know we're friends, and we've had experiences... we've fought some blood-sucking fiends, and that's all been a good time. But I want more. I wanna dance with you."

I took a deep breath. Okay, the truth, or a reasonable facsimile. "Xander, gimme a minute, okay? This, it's kind of unexpected, okay. I didn't... I honestly had no idea you felt like this." Eyes fixed on his. "You're not just asking about a dance, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not."

"If it was just the dance, then the answer would be yes. But you deserve the full answer, Xander." There's hurt in his eyes. "Let me give you that answer. I do like you Xander. But I don't know how much. And I don't want you to look for something that might not be there. A dance, a date, to find out how far that feeling goes? Yeah. I'd like that. But I might not feel that way about you, Xander. And that would hurt you. I don't want that."

"Well," he says slowly. "We can try?"

"There's another but," I say, still as gently as I can, but with a hint more humour. "And this one could be worse. For you, anyway. I might wind up not going to the Fling anyway. You know, the whole hanging around in graveyards thing."

"Ah, that thing."

"Yeah, puts a crimp on the whole dating thing. So you could wind up getting stood up for one of the undead."

"Oh, is that how it is?" A teasing tone, thank god. I'd have hated it if he said that seriously. "I guess a guy's gotta be a Vamp to make time with you, huh?"

"Oh please," I made a moue of disgust. "If I was keeping a list, which I'm not, you'd be up near the top. They wouldn't even be on it."

"Really?" Okay, he was way too perky. "Up near the top, huh."

"Might be right up there, Xand'," I assured him. "I'm pretty sure Mom and Dawn would think I'm crazy not to just say yes outright. Well, Dawn would probably kill me if I did. She wants you for herself."

He blinked. "Really!?"

"She's not the only one, you know," I told him. "You've got an admirer or two among the ladies. I may have to watch my step."

"I do? I mean, yeah, I do," he said proudly. Cordelia's right, he is a doofus. Not always a bad thing, though.

"Yeah, you do." I rose to leave. "And Xander?"

"Hmmm?"

"I said, I'm not sure if I... feel the same way for you. But... like you said, we've had a lot of experiences. And I wouldn't want to have gone through them without you. Sometimes when it's dark and I'm all alone and I'm scared or freaked out or whatever, I think, 'What would Xander do?'"

"And then you run away?"

"You're a hero, Xander," I told him. "Just don't let it go to your head."

.oOo.

Have you ever had one of those days? Biology sucked which was apparently the signal for every other class that day to go straight to the shitter.

.oOo.

Angel gestured silently towards a door. We'd been running quiet for the last half-hour to avoid drawing the attention of any vampires in the area. We'd been lucky in this respect.

Touching the door, I found it locked and barred. The door itself was out of place with its surroundings, a metal security door that must have been obtained from elsewhere. Quite formidable although I had to wonder at keeping the defenses pointed in that direction. A quizzical look at Angel persuaded him to produce a large iron key and gesture towards the bar.

Ah well, I'd trusted him this far. I lifted the bar and set it aside so he could open the lock. It was well oiled and turned smoothly. Pulling the door open he bowed and waved me through in a courtly fashion. I accepted the invitation and took two steps down the stair beyond, keeping my back to the wall. The stair descended into a large and familiar chamber lit by hundreds of candles. A ruined chapel that I did not have to guess at the occupant of.

There was a crash behind me and I jerked my head around to see the door closed behind me and hear the lock click. Angel! Dammit! There was a muffled thud that I took to mean that the bar was in place once more.

Scheisse! What the hell was going… on… oh. Oh fuck. Angelus. How the hell had that happened? How the hell had that happened without me noticing? I should have paid more attention to him. I'd kept my distance and that had been a serious mistake on my part. One that could get people killed.

Harsh but true. I felt most chastised by my hindsight.

"Welcome," came a single voice whose origin I couldn't make out. Spooky.

I took a few more steps down the staircase, scanning the room for the Master. "Thanks for the courtesy. Although, really, it's your lot that need an invitation to enter a home. Nice place. You've got a real batcave ambience going. Except… no bats, I guess."

"Oh good," Nest said, stepping out into the light cast by one of the candelabra. "The feeble banter portion of the fight. I'd heard that you were more direct than that."

I shrugged and pointed my crossbow at him. "Sorry, I was all agog at Angel's change of sides. How long has he been working for you?"

"Oh, months now," he told me, unconcerned by the weapon I'd brought to bear. "He was Darla's little gift and now he's brought you to me."

"Does he get a kewpie doll?" I asked sarcastically. Might as well learn what I could now – so I could chase my own little Benedict Arnold down later and deliver his reward.

"His thirty pieces of silver?" the Master asked. "Oh he'd have done it for free, letting his inner demon out so to speak. But I've promised him his own city when we're done. The City of Angels will become the City of Angelus."

"Right up until the Old Ones take it off him," I snorted.

"Yes, well. Out of every life a little blood must spill. Unfortunately, it's your turn again, and it'll be more than a little."

I recognised the turn of phrase he'd adapted and chuckled. "Been catching up on modern literature?"

He smiled. "Angelus told me of your fondness for it."

I replied with my crossbow and the Anointed One, who'd been approaching me through the shadows, turned to dust as the wooden bolt pierced his heart.

"You killed my Anointed One!" complained Heinrich Joesph Nest.

.oOo.

"Angelus told you about my reading habits," I told the surprised vampire. "Well here's some modern literature for you: 'he was _never_ a full member of the gang, no matter what _he_ thought... and we operated information sequestration with him. He _didn't know everything_."

I slammed a right cross against the side of his head as he tried to stand, dropping him again. "Do you know that reference? No? Too bad – 'cus this next one's so post-modern it hasn't even been _published_ yet."

"THE OBNOXIOUS SHAOLIN FRAT BOY _KICKS_ THE _EMPTY KEG_ THROUGH TH' THIRD STOREY _WINDOW_!" I shouted as I bounced into a flying kick that hammered one booted foot into the side of the Master's face and hurled him from his feet to crumple to the ground ten feet away.

(Well I _started_ shouting that as I began the wind-up. The Master was on the ground and had stopped rolling by the time that I reached the bit about the window.)

.oOo.

So, back in Sunnydale after a wonderful summer of having to dodge Dad Summers to get any vampire hunting done. Is it any wonder that I slipped seamlessly into my old routine?

The local vampire population had diversified a bit over the summer, a weakening of the Master's grip on them I hope, and I took a great deal of satisfaction in tracking down and cleaning out several nests that were more accessible than, say, subterranean churches on top of the Hellmouth.

This didn't, of course, excuse me from the most rudimentary and boring forms of vampire population control. Grave watching, the new sport fresh from the west coast of the United States.

Bleah.

This particular little birdy was called Stephan Korshak and he was playing hard to get. Really annoying since I had a trigonometry assignment to finish tonight and I couldn't exactly do that in the graveyard. I'm getting close enough to the median life expectancy of a Vampire Slayer without taking that sort of dumb chance.

"Hey."

Have I mentioned that I really, really don't like it when people sneak up on me?

Five seconds later I had the guy pinned on the ground. Fortunately for him I recognised him while I was winding up for the stake-to-heart routine.

"Is this a bad time?"

"Jesse! Are you totally out of your mind?" I asked as I stood and helped him to his feet. "You don't just sneak up on me when I'm tensed up! I thought it was Angelus or someone like that!"

"Sorry." He shook his head. "I heard you were on patrol and thought you might want some company."

I shrugged and perched myself on Stephen's gravestone. "It's been a quiet hunt. Once lazybones here comes out to play I'll call it a night. Although at this rate I may have to exhume him myself."

"Ex-what?"

"Dig him up."

"Oh well, we wouldn't want that." He shivered. "Must be kind of weird, waking up in your own coffin and having to dig yourself up."

"I suppose. I'm not exactly tearing up over them but if I ever snuff it, do me a favour and have me cremated." I shiver myself. "I really, really don't want to be a vampire."

"Hey," Jesse says. "Not happening, okay? You've got me and Xander and Willow – we won't let that ever happen."

"Yeah, I guess I should stop being so maudlin," I agree. Right then the grave shook a bit and Stephan clawed his way out of it. "Hold that thought," I told Jesse and leant down, driving my bokken through the newly hatched vampire's heart from behind.

"My work here is done," I told Jesse, wiping vampire dust off the polished surface of the wooden sword. "Now I can return to my home world."

He frowned. "UHF?"

"Yep. Your turn." I confirmed as we walked away from the grave.

Jesse frowned in thought. "Are we being too literal?" he ventured.

"No you fool, we're following orders," I laughed. "We were told to comb the desert so we're combing it. Spaceballs."

"Damn," he groaned.

"Okay…" I mused. "Try this, my young padawan. Character is what you are in the d-oah-uf," I finished as the ground fell away from under me. "Ow."

Fortunately for me the hole wasn't that deep – only four or five feet and the open coffin cushioned me nicely. "Well that's suitably ironic. At least I won't have to dig myself out of here."

"Are you okay?" asked Jesse, bending over the grave to look down at me.

"I'm fine. Humiliated, but fine."

"So what's with the open grave?" he asked. "Did you miss one?"

"Christ I hope not," I muttered as I rolled to my feet and scrambled up the side of the hole. Then I frowned and looked at the sides more closely. "Oh that's sick."

"What?"

"These are spade marks."

"So?" asked Jesse, giving me a hand out.

"So someone _exhumed_…" I glanced at the tombstone, "Meredith Todd. And somehow I don't think it was for her winning personality."

.oOo.

There didn't seem to be any immediate danger posed by our mysterious grave robber, so it wasn't until the next morning that I bothered Giles with the information. Besides, thinking about grave robbing late at night doesn't do wonderful things on the restless sleep front.

Trust me, I'd found that out in spades.

Walking into the library, Xander and I were greeted by Giles' back. He appeared to be… look I'm not making this up, okay? He was propositioning a goddamn chair. I swear and I have Xander as a witness. My Watcher, the notional brains of this outfit was _chatting up_ a piece of _furniture_.

"W-w-w-what I'm proposing is, um… and I-I don't mean to appear indecorous, is, is, um, a, a-a-a social engagement, um, a, a, a, a-a date, if you're amenable."

Xander and I halted and let the door close silently behind us. We exchanged incredulous glances.

Giles took his glasses off and rested his head in one hand. "You idiot!" he told himself.

I walked up silently behind him and then leant over to whisper softly in his ear, "Rupert?" in my best imitation of Ms. Calendar's accent.

He burst to his feet and spun around, face reddening. "J-j-jenny!" Then he realised who it was and his face darkened. "Buffy! Would you please n-not _do_ that!"

"Sorry Giles," I said, unrepentantly, and went past him to sit on the table. "Just think of it as a training program – you need to be more aware of your surroundings, even when you're plotting pick up lines to use on… Ms. Calendar, I presume?"

"W-what makes you think that?" he asked.

"Simple deduction," Xander said, taking the chair that Giles had vacated. "Ms. Calendar is reasonably dollsome, especially for someone in your age bracket. She already knows that you're a school librarian, so you don't have to worry about how to break that embarrassing news to her."

I threw a book at him but Giles caught it out of the air. "Buffy!"

"You're not doing so badly," I assured the librarian. "But seriously, no need to talk about 'social engagements' or 'dates'. You're both adults, right?"

"Y-yes," he agreed.

"Then just ask her if she'd like to have dinner with you one night this week. No pressure, just have a couple of restaurants in mind if she asks and a recipe planned if she wants home-cooking."

"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "Right."

"Is that what I should have done?" Xander asked curiously.

"No, we're both teenagers," I assured him. "Gile's insecure stammering a minute ago would be an appropriate technique for our age brackets."

"So, um, how did things go last night? Did Mr Korshak show up on schedule?" Giles asked, changing the subject. For which I should probably have showered him with praise. Talking about teenage dating practises is never a good idea and I really should have known better.

"A little late, but yeah. No problem. There was something though. We found an empty grave."

"We?" asked Xander.

"Jesse decided to go walking on his own in the graveyard. I've spoken to him about that," I explained.

"Was it another vampire?" Giles asked. "The grave I mean?"

I shook my head. "No, it was a spade job. Someone went in there and snatched the body. Must have been quite early because I was in that part of the cemetery for quite a bit of the night."

"Grave robbing?" he mused. "That's new. Interesting."

The three of us shared the deep and uncomfortable realisation that we were taking a quiet and professional interest in the practise of exhuming dead bodies.

"Terrible thing." "Gross and disgusting." "Gotta put a stop to this." Then we cracked up in nervous laughter.

"So," Xander said practically. "Why does someone want to dig up graves?"

"Well, I'll, uh, collect some theories. Uh it would help if we knew who the body belonged to."

I nodded. "Meredith Todd." I passed a transcription of the details on the tombstone to him. "About my age but I don't think she was a student here – ring any bells Xander?"

"Drawing a blank," he said.

"And only recently deceased," Giles noted. "Well, maybe Willow can turn some information up on this thing," he indicated the computer.

I nodded absently. This did seem familiar but I couldn't place any details. Hopefully it wouldn't be too bad. After all, it's not as if the dead body was really going to complain – unless it was a vampire in which case the graverobbers would presumably be in quite a bit of trouble.

.oOo.

"This shouldn't take long," Willow assured us. "I'm probably the only girl in school who has the coroner's office bookmarked."

"One of two," I corrected her. "I copied your bookmarks, remember?"

This, of course, was the point that Cordelia lowered herself to enter the library. "Hi," she said. "Sorry to interrupt your little undead playgroup, but I need to ask Willow if she'll help me with my science fair project."

.oOo.

"A lot of educators tell students: Think of your Principal as your pal," Snyder advised the 'class' gathered in his office. Said class comprising myself and a girl called Sheila. I didn't know her well – probably because she attended school so rarely. "I say: Think of me as your judge, jury and executioner." The weasel-faced Principal sneered at us. "Tell me, who do you think is the most troublesome student in this school?"

"Warren Meers," I replied promptly. "Always asking questions in class – sure sign of inadequate brainwashing."

"I suppose that you think that that's funny, Summers?"

"It's the explicit goal of a compulsory school system, Principal Snyder," I replied earnestly. "To quote Benjamin Rush: 'Let our pupil be taught that he does not belong to himself, but that he is public property.' The goal is of schools is conformity, not education."

"Actually, Summers," Snyder replied, apparently wanting to get back on track, "It's quite a match between the two of you. On the one hand, your anarchist streak hasn't led you to stab a horticulture teacher with a trowel, yet."

"I didn't stab anyone with a trowel," Sheila objected. "They were pruning shears."

"On the other hand, Sheila has never burned down a school building."

"Thanks for giving her the idea," I said cheerfully. "Want me to mention this conversation to the insurance assessors if she takes you up on the suggestion?"

"The two of you seem to be tied in the class-cutting and fight-starting events. You really are neck and neck here. It's quite exciting," Snyder said flatly.

"What does the winner get?" Sheila asked in a bored voice.

"Expelled," Snyder smirked. "Thursday is Parent-Teacher night. Your parents, assuming you have any, will meet your teachers, assuming you have any left. I've decided to put the two of you in charge of this event. You have three days to prepare the refreshments, make the banners and transform the school lounge into a place for adults. This will incur my good will. And may affect what I tell your parents when I meet them. Are we clear?"

Okay, what he tells Mom about my conduct at school depends on my being in his non-existent good books. So I'm screwed.

No change there then.

"I have just one question," I said, when it became evident that Sheila wasn't going to say anything. I looked at her. "Are you going to do anything to contribute to this 'grand event'?"

"Nope."

I nodded, ignoring Snyder's face, which was going all sorts of nasty colours. "Figured that'd be the case. Right then. Anything else?" I asked the Principal. "Cuz, if I'm on my own I'd better get cracking."

"If you mess up this time, your parents will be coming to clean out your lockers," he snarled.

.oOo.

"So, Snyder's got you and Sheila making party favours?" Xander asked as he and Jesse met me outside the school entrance.

"That seems to be his master plan for this week's episode," I replied dryly. "Maybe I should just look up exorcism and see if that gets rid of him."

"Not a bad idea," Jesse agreed. "You'd get the grateful thanks of the entire school body if it worked."

"Yeah, well I'm gonna be a bit too busy for the next few days. Somehow I doubt Sheila's going to do anything, so I'll be doing this solo," I told them. "Maybe I can get extra credit for Home Economics out of it."

"That's Sheila alright," Xander agreed, "That guy with her?" he pointed at a blond guy wearing black shorts and a heavy metal t-shirt, who was wrapped up in Sheila. "That's the guy she _can_ bring home to mother."

Jesse nodded, "Wills' says she was smoking back in fifth-grade."

"How'd Willow know?" I asked.

"Sheila bullied her into playing lookout."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," I sighed. "Anyway – I'm going to head for the Teacher's Lounge and see what I have to work with. See if I can get it clean with something other than a match and a gallon of petroleum."

.oOo.

"I got the mail," Joyce told me that night, as I was curled up on my bed with a book and trying to deal with the fact that I wouldn't find any Katherine Kurtz novels I hadn't already read for the next decade or so. Damn it.

The fact that Joyce was using the tone of voice usually reserved for when Dawn and I got snippy at each other caught my attention. "That happens most days," I pointed out, putting a bookmark into my book to mark my place.

"Which included a reminder notice about the Parent-Teacher night. Thursday."

"Yeah?"

"Which you were planning on telling me about?" Mom asked.

"Didn't I?" I asked, quite surprised. Oh right, I found out the night I didn't get home 'til late on account of a vampire nest I'd spotted. Thus, I'd not had a chance to mention it that night and I'd forgotten by morning. "No, you're right. I didn't. Bother. Are you free?"

"Yes."

"Good," I said. "Sorry about that - I hope you didn't have to cancel anything."

"Fortunately, no," Joyce agreed. "So, what do you think your teachers are gonna tell me about?"

I frowned. "Well, I expect that they'll skip right over my grades and go onto my bad habits – asking questions, talking back to the popular crowd… the usual."

Joyce blinked. "And how are these bad habits? How are they reflected in your homework and test scores?"

"Ah, I thought you might ask that," I said triumphantly, and produced a sheet of paper from my bedside table. "Witness my grades for the last year." I could be fairly confident of those: the teachers might kiss up to Snyder to a distressing degree but they knew damn well I'd kick up a row if they mucked around with my grades.

I saw Joyce's eyebrows rise as she saw I was scoring A's and B's in almost every class. Not that difficult really – I'd done most of the work before and pulled in solid grades. "Well done," she said, in an impressed voice. "I look forward to meeting your principal."

I snorted. "Don't." At her glance I elaborated: "He's been on a power-trip since he found out he could issue detentions and he thinks expelling a student is infinitely preferable to graduating one."

"I'm sure he can't be that bad," Joyce protested.

"Well, draw your own conclusions once you've met him," I shrugged. "I'm sure he won't hesitate to sink a few daggers into my front."

"Your back, dear."

"Front – I'll be there." She shot me a startled look. "He volunteered me to cater."

"Oh," Mom said, in surprise. Then she frowned and opened her mouth to speak.

"Since it's short notice for a babysitter, I checked and Xander said he'd be free to baby-sit Dawn if you needed him to. His parents aren't going," I added, "And I guess he'd be glad to be out of the house."

.oOo.

"Buffy," Giles called as he and Jenny walked into the Teacher's Lounge where I was painting the banner that was required (for some imbecilic reason) to decorate the school porch. We never had crap like that when I was at school. We had desks and chairs for the teachers and appointments for the parents. Christ knows, we never served punch and pretzels.

"There is nothing in the chronicles about a-an extraneous lunar cycle," Giles added as an aside to Jenny.

"The Order never accurately calculated the Mesopotamian Calendar," she replied. "Rupert, you have _got_ to read something that was published after 1066."

"Very funny," he replied.

"What's the up, guys?" Xander asked from where he'd been helping me eat my crisps - potato chips, I mean.

"W-um, Ms. Calendar has been researching, well, uh, surfing on her computer, a-and she's…"

"Spit it out," I snapped, wiping another smear of paint onto the banner.

Giles looked a little offended. "This Saturday is the night of St. Vigeous."

"So what's the deal about some long forgotten catholic?" I asked.

"He led a crusade of, of, uh, vampires. They swept through Edessa, Harran and points east," Giles explained.

"And they didn't leave much behind," Jenny added.

"Right," I sighed. "Let me guess. You don't think Angelus will celebrate with a quiet night in and a glass of brandy? Any idea what he's likely to get up to?"

"Er… no," Giles confessed.

"Great," I sighed. "Okay. See what you can find out." I turned to Willow, who'd been giving me a hand with the painting. (I knew Snyder wouldn't like it, but she looked too cute for me to turn down her offer of assistance). "Willow, you'd better give Giles and Jenny a hand with that. Xander – get together with Jesse and check the weapons locker. Make sure we've got plenty of the basics – stakes, crucifixes and holy water. You know how to get more if we need them."

"A-and what will you doing?" Giles asked.

"Well, first I'm going to get this done. And tonight I'll knock heads together and see what I can find out."

.oOo.

I did know this particular little bit of Buffy history as it happened, so I knew that what happened would be on Thursday not Saturday. What I wasn't sure of was how it would happen – I'd not seen any sign of Spike yet, but even if he didn't show then Angelus might well come out to play. Peachy. At least Dawn would be safe at home with Xander to watch out for her.

In search of more information, I staked out the Bronze later that night and who should I see walk in and start nosing around but a certain bleached-blond Vampire. Funny how things work out really. I'd been looking for him and here he was, looking for me. Of course, since I was perched up on one of the rafters above a spotlight (and thus the next best thing to invisible), I was having more luck than he was.

I wasn't really very interested in some witty repartee or whatever he was after but I was interested in where he went when he left the Bronze, a large and rather hairy vampire lieutenant in tow.

As it happened, they seemed to be hunting because they split up. The lieutenant, I recognised as one of the late Herr Nest's flunkies that I'd missed killing last summer so I dealt with him first. I just hate having unfinished business – it always comes back to haunt me in this town. He wasn't being terribly cautious – one crossbow bolt from the rooftop turned him into light layer of dust on the asphalt and I took a moment to recover the bolt before turning to see if I could pick up a trace of Spike again.

What I saw gave me cause to regret not going him first. He'd come across three youngsters leaving some rattrap of a bar and was on them before I could get into shouting range or reload the crossbow.

Damn, but he was smooth. First one, then the other of the two men were taken out without the girl noticing more than their absence. He fed quickly and then stepped out to distract her attention. As she turned to look at him I bit back a curse. It was Sheila.

Well no use trying to warn her about him – she'd probably take any criticism as a mark in his favour, or as me trying to 'steal him off of her'. As if.

So instead I followed them. It looked to me as if he'd take her home with him – takeout for Drusilla so to speak. And I was definitely interested in finding out where he was lairing now that he'd got into town. With just a little bit of luck he'd lead me all the way to Angelus.

He couldn't go any faster than Sheila could walk, so I was able to follow quite easily until he reached his car. I took the time to mock up a quick disguise, tying a silk bandanna around my lower face and tucking my hair up under a woollen cap I carried around for just that purpose. I probably looked moderately ridiculous, but chances were that Sheila wouldn't recognise me – which was the main idea.

Spike had his hand on the door of his car when I jumped off the nearest building and landed on the roof. Startled, he didn't react in time to stop me from kicking him right under the jaw and hurling him backwards away from the car and away from Sheila.

"Heard that you were looking for me," I said, stepping off the roof of the car and walking towards him. "So. What brings William the Bloody to my little corner of the world? Family reunion?"

"Slayer," he muttered, sounding a little surprised. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Right then," I said coolly. "Then you won't mind taking a little message to your limp-wristed boy-band-reject of a grandsire, will you? Tell him he should have run while he had the chance."

"Hey," protested Sheila. "What are you talking about? What's up?"

"You're coming with me," I said flatly.

"No, I'm going with him," Sheila insisted.

I rolled my eyes and punched her under the ribs. I pulled the blow but it doubled over up nicely anyway. "See you Saturday, shall I, Billy-boy?"

"Kill you Saturday, Slayer," he lied and backed away as I hoisted Sheila over my shoulder and left.

.oOo.

"Buffy! Look out!" shouted Giles from through the library doors.

I lunged forwards instinctively – I'd lost the element of surprise, so I needed to get rid of the vampire fast, then deal with whatever Giles had noticed. Said deadite menace was still in the process of turning when I crashed into him and bore him to the ground, driving my stake into his side between two ribs and then rolling through the resultant cloud of dust into a handstand against the door behind him.

Behind _me_, a fire axe crashed against the floor almost where I'd been standing. I looked up and saw Cordelia holding the axe handle. There was something wrong with her face, and for a moment I was tempted to ascribe it to my being upside down.

Then she lifted the axe again and I saw her eyes. She was a vampire.

"Oh shit," I said, not yet fully processing the full meaning of this. "When… awp!" The last sound was what I uttered as I had to cartwheel aside to avoid her axe, which gouged into the library door.

.oOo.

Bleach boy looks up and grins. Yep, that's William the Bloody Awful. "Fe, fi, fo fum," he says by way of greeting. "I smell the blood of a nice ripe girl."

"You're not winning any friends with that as a chat up line," I replied and looked down at the pole he was holding. "So, are we going to settle this with weapons?"

"I like 'em," Spike replied. "They make me feel all manly."

"I'm glad something does," I riposted, keeping the axe at low guard. "Having trouble measuring up with Drusilla now that she's got her sugar-daddy back, are you?"

He growled and advanced on me, raising the pole. "Got a real mouth on you, don't you? Me and Dru, we're forever, and don't you forget it."

"Nothing lasts forever," I told him and sidestepped away from his improvised club.

"The last Slayer I killed… she begged for her life," he told me.

"You've snagged yourself a brace," I replied calmly. "So is a hat-trick the magic number?"

"Dunno," he grinned. "But I guess I'll find out _real_ soon now."

I shook my head. "That's not gonna happen, Spike. You were lucky as hell last time. Now you think you can take me down? On my homeground? Not gonna happen."

"Bets?" the vampire asked, swinging at me.

I smacked the pole casually aside with the flat of the fire axe. "I've got a magic number too, poet. Four little Scourges of Europe and here you are... all four of you in my town and ready for me to do the house-cleaning."

.oOo.

So… two days before Halloween and I'm spending the evening slaying. Hands in the air if you're surprised by this.

Didn't think so.

I wasn't planning on much – it'd been pretty quiet lately and Halloween 1997 is a fairly memorable Buffy occasion – so I was just doing a little clean up in the graveyards but – lucky me, I ran into some dumb minion type who still thought a lone blonde was a Happy Meal.

I suppose Harmony should thank me – no vampire with even half a brain would attack her in case they're mistaking me for her.

Anyway. Mr. Bloodsucker had a little more fight in him than the 'fresh from the grave' variety of vampires that'd been all I'd staked for a couple of days, so things got a little messy. We didn't _totally_ demolish Pop's Pumpkin Patch, but there _were_ a couple of vampire-shaped holes by the time I was done and quite a bit of damage to the merchandise, so I emptied the wallet I'd taken off the vampire before I staked him and left most of the cash where no one would find it until the 'Pop' got round to cleaning up.

I thought I'd seen another vampire around during the fight but he didn't join in so I wasn't sure. I guess if he was there then he decided not to get involved. Annoying really – vampires are so much easier to stake when they aren't cautious like that.

So I was out of pocket, pumpkin-stained and frustrated when I got home. As a nice relaxing night before the Hellmouth flared up again, it was a wash.

.oOo.

School the next day wasn't exactly delightful either. Snyder was feeling bitter and twisted, as usual, and Halloween was giving him another excuse to vent this on the students.

"Snyder must be in charge of the volunteer safety program for Halloween this year," Willow said as we pass him forcing a clipboard on one of Cordelia's legion of sheep.

"Note his interesting take on the volunteer concept," Xander added.

"Volunteer safety program?" I asked. Doesn't sound like what I was expecting. "Is that a Halloween thing?"

"Oh, a bunch of little kids need people to take them trick-or-treating," Xander explained while Willow opened her locker. "Sign up and get your own pack of sugar-hyped little runts for the night."

"Oh…" I said, and then frowned. Okay, that _was_ about what I'd expected. Just a silly name. I was about to add something about the name when someone tapped my on the shoulder.

I hate it when people do that.

Particularly when it's someone like Snyder, that I can't physically persuade not to do it again.

"Miss Summers," he says. "Just the juvenile delinquent I've been looking for."

"Principal Snyder," I replied quickly pasting a big grin on my face. "Just the teacher I was hoping to run into! Xander was just telling me about the volunteer safety program and I was wondering where I could sign up."

He looked at me in surprise. "_You_ want to sign up?"

"Absolutely," I say as enthusiastically as I can. "I love the idea of taking kids trick or treating."

He shoves his clipboard behind himself. "I just bet you do, Miss Summers. The last thing those children need is your bad influence. However, perhaps it will be enough to separate you from your partners in crime." He held out the clipboard to Xander and Willow. "The program starts at four, the children have to be back at six."

.oOo.

"I can't believe this," Xander ranted. "We have to get dressed up and the whole deal?"

"Snyder said costumes were mandatory," Willow sighed. "You were smart to get out of it, Buffy."

"It wouldn't make all that much difference," I said with a shrug. "Whether it's the sprogs from school or my sister, I'm gonna have to supervise some trick or treating."

Xander shook his head. "And Halloween… that's gotta be a big old vamp scare-apalooza."

"Not according to Giles," I told him. "He swears up and down that Halloween is the one night that Vampires almost always stay in. Of course, we _are_ on the Hellomouth, so I'm not going to rely on that."

Just as we entered the lounge, we saw one of the football jocks looming over Jesse – and by looming over him, I mean holding him by the shirt and about to land a punch. Oh the joy.

I wasn't exactly in any position to do anything about it either, but fortunately Jesse remembered a little bit of advice that I'd given him a while back. Well one of them – kicking one of the football squad between the goalposts would have been a fast track way of getting suspended, justified or not. Instead, he jabbed his left hand into the inside of Larry's elbow and the jock's arm folded up like a pair of scissors, dragging Jesse forward. As a result they both went down like a pair of drunken sailors.

"Jesus, Larry," I said, walking over. "Aren't there bars you can go to, or something? Just grabbing random blokes is going to get you into trouble."

"It's not like that!" he spat and tried to get up. Unfortunately, he and Jesse weren't exactly co-ordinating that and… well, their faces came into collision. In full view of a fascinated crowd. Jesse recoiled immediately, practically spitting. Larry just looked stunned.

.oOo.

"B-buffy?" gasped Jesse. Oh thanks, ruin my surprise attack, whydontcha?

Spike threw his head back and laughed. "Nice try pal, but your slayer friend's dead."

I grabbed his shoulder and spun him round to face me, then laid an upper cut into his jaw, hurling him halfway across the warehouse. "I. Got. Better."

Then I turned my best glare upon the two vampires still stood among the blubbering children and restraining Jesse and Dawn, and walked menacingly towards them, clenching my fists.

"S-slayer?" asked one of them.

"That's right," I told him. "I'm back. And I'm a _bloody animal_!"

They turned and ran.

Damn, the psycho slayer thing comes in handy sometimes. I scare even myself at times.

Spike staggered to his feet. "Right then," he growls, staring after his minions. "I don't need them. Taken down two Slayers in my time, I have. Think you can go best out of three with me, luv? Think again!" he declared, and charged.

"Best out of one should do it," I growled and swung the sword out from behind my back to drive it into his chest.

We stood there for a moment, him looking down at the length of steel sticking out from between his ribs, me twisting it deliberately to increase the damage done.

"Cut that out," he said, "it tickles."

"Yeah?" I asked, twisting the sword blade around a bit more. "Well, tell me something."

"What?" he asked.

Can you believe it? The idiot stopped to talk in the middle of the fight! Moron.

"Can you blush?" I asked, and then ripped the sword up and out of his shoulder, by way of his heart.

William the Dusty declined to reply.

"B-buffy?" Dawn asked again.

"That's my name," I smirked.

"Weren't you dead a minute ago?" demanded Jesse.

I looked down at myself, then up at him. "I guess so. But I feel much better now."

.oOo.

Later that night I was in my room, sprawled out on the bed and skimming through a collection of Kipling's poems when I heard a knock at the door.

I looked up and saw Dawn peeking around the door. So much for the souped up Slayer senses – I would have expected to hear her the minute she left her room, but nooo...

"Hey there," I greeted her. She edged into the room, wearing her nightie. Well, she'd obviously followed at least part of the instruction 'go to bed'. "You okay?"

"I can't sleep," she told me quietly.

I shrugged and set my book aside. I wasn't feeling too sleepy myself. "Want me to get you something? I'm told warm milk helps."

Normally that would provoke a sarcastic commentary on my ability to use a microwave. (Justified, although I can manage a conventional cooker well enough to get by). Instead, Dawn just looked down at the carpet and mumbled something, I couldn't quite make out. Dammit, what the hell was up with my hearing tonight?

"I didn't quite catch that," I said.

"What happened tonight?" my little sister asked.

Oh... bollocks.

I considered my options for a moment. What it boiled down to was to tell the truth or to lie to her. The truth would hurt – Dawn was still so _young_... A lie would damage the trust that had been so fragile between us since I'd arrived her... No, worse. It could get her _killed_.

"Halloween," I said. "The night when the monsters come out and play."

"But monsters aren't real!" Dawn protested, beginning to cry.

I took her hands in mine and hugged her gently to me. "I'm sorry, sweetie."

She nestled against me, looking for reassurance I think. "Are they?"

"Monsters? Oh yes. Monsters and magic. It's a pretty amazing town we live in and a girl'd have to be some kinda fool to think we're all alone in it," I said, paraphrasing one of my favourite movies.

"Am I going crazy too?" she asked me. "Like you did?"

"Am I really so bad?" I asked her.

"No," she admitted "You were always a bimbo back in L.A.."

"Ouch, truth hurts," I said, and she giggled weakly.

"Is that why you can't sleep?" I asked.

"Uh-huh. Every time I close my eyes I think they're gonna come and get me. Or I'll be someone else like I was before."

"That's not gonna happen," I promised. Then I lifted her up easily (at least the Slayer strength wasn't wigging out on me!) and pushed back the covers of my bed. "How about you sleep in here tonight, and I'll make sure that no nasty monsters come and bother you."

She nodded convulsively and huddled under the duvet as I put my book away and undressed for bed. When I slid under the cover she cuddled up against me and I hugged her to me.

"I thought you were dead," Dawn whispered into my ear.

I stroked her hair. "Yeah. I thought I was too."

"Do you always beat the bad guys, like that blond guy?"

"Oh yeah," I assured her as I switched reached over to off the light. "Me and Giles and Xander and the rest. We always defeat the bad guys and save the day. No one ever dies, and everyone lives happily after."

.oOo.

"Well, it seems like Louis XVI was just sort of a weak king," one of the boys said in response to the teacher's leading questions in class.

"That's fair enough," she replied. "Uh, any other impressions?"

"He wasn't exactly in the best of positions," I pointed out. "He wasn't exactly trained for the job – he was only a few years older than we are when he took the throne, and the closest thing Europe had back there to training for a king was military service, which wouldn't have helped much dealing with an economic crisis. It might have helped deal with the nobility, but then he'd have been kicking off a Civil War on his own and he'd have had the example of Charles I of England a century and a half back in England for what happens to Kings who try military solutions against their own governments."

"The real cause of the problems was the continued crisis between the nobility and the general population. His only real hope was to resolve that and when the nobility refused to compromise, he didn't have the sort of character to force a solution. Once he tried to run away, it was all up – he'd abdicated his responsibilities and he was never going to be able to reclaim his moral authority."

.oOo.

"I'd suggest a box of Oreos dunked in apple juice," came a voice from behind me. "But maybe she's over that phase."

I blinked and turned my head to look for whoever had made such a bizarre suggestion. He was a cleancut guy about our age, no one I'd seen around before. He was also looking right at me. "Uh, what?" I asked.

"Hey, Summers," he said cheerfully. "You don't remember me?"

I shrugged. "Er… no? Don't think I do."

The boy looked disappointed. "Billy Fordham? From Hemery?"

My eyes widened. Oho! I hadn't seen the episode in question, but that name rang a bell alright. "Ford?" I said incredulously. "What the hell are _you_ doing here? I thought it would take an earthquake to get you out of L.A."

"Dad got transferred," he explained, "I'm finishing out my senior year at Sunnydale High."

.oOo.

I looked down at Ford's grave, then pulled a folded piece of paper out of my pocket and read what was on it out loud.

"Insofar as I may be heard by anything, which may or may not care what I say, I ask, if it matters, that you be forgiven for anything you may have done or failed to do which requires forgiveness. Conversely, if not forgiveness but something else may be required to insure any possible benefit for which you may be eligible after the destruction of your body, I ask that this, whatever it may be, be granted or withheld, as the case may be, in such a manner as to insure your receiving said benefit. I ask this in my capacity as your elected intermediary between yourself and that which may not be yourself, but which may have an interest in the matter of your receiving as much as it is possible for you to receive of this thing, and which may in some way be influenced by this ceremony. Amen."

Giles looked surprised but said Amen with me. "The Agnostic's Prayer?" he asked.

"If I believed in a merciful God, I'd have to accept that this is the life I deserve. I'd rather be agnostic."

.oOo.

"Ethan? This is the guy with the freaky halloween costumes that got you killed, right?"

"T-that's him," Giles confirmed as I nodded.

"So, this demon thing's trying to kill him?" asked Jesse.

I nodded. "'I'm trying not to let that happen."

"There's no finer human quality than mercy. But there's a time and a place for everything," Xander pointed out.

"That's true," I conceded. "Unfortunately, Ethan's slimey enough to arrange for someone else to get killed in his place – if we just leave him to die he'll get someone killed when he tries to weasel out of this."

.oOo.

Apparently the career fair in an American high school is rather more important than I had thought because it had been the main subject of conversation for a couple of days now. It was as if whatever came out of the lottery of the career aptitude test would be their inevitable destiny. Were this to be the Soviet Union, they might be right… actually, given that this was Sunnydale it was entirely possible that the Mayor _did_ micromanage to that degree.

The kids who strategised what answers to give in an attempt to 'beat the system' were taking it way too seriously though.

"'Are you a people person or do you prefer keeping your own company?'" Xander read off his test. "Well what if I'm a people person who keeps his own company by default?"

"Then I guess you're still a people person," I told him. "It's all a nonsense anyway, so why get all wound up about it?"

"But don't you want to know what you could be doing in a few years time?" Jesse asked from the other side of the table. "I mean, slinky fashion model or something?"

I started to gargle disgustedly. "Fashion model? Yech, not a hope!"

"I don't know," Willow said from behind me. "You are a bit of a clothes horse, Buffy." (I squeaked indignantly). "And didn't you spend about an hour helping me pick out a dress for the Homecoming Dance?"

"Yeah…" I agreed. "That was awesome, half-naked Willow and a bed…" Willow went a brilliant crimson and the boys stared at me slack-jawed for a moment before I winked. "That's a point for my side, I believe," I told them.

"Yeah, you wait, Summers," Jesse grumbled good-naturedly. "One day you'll be on the other end of barbs like that and what'll you do then?"

"Doesn't that depend on the silly piece of paper's verdict?" I asked, tapping the aptitude test with my pencil. "If you fill out the Career Aptitude Test then forever will it dominate your destiny…"

"It's ridiculous," Xander grumped. "These people can't tell from one multiple-choice test what we're gonna be doing for the rest of our lives."

"Don't you want to know what sort of career you can have?" Willow asked.

"What? And suck all the spontaneity out of being young and stupid? I'd rather live in the dark."

"You're not gonna be young forever," chided Willow.

"Yeah, but I'll always be stupid," Xander smirked. "Okay, let's not all rush to disagree," he added as no one denied the statement.

"~History is made by stupid people, clever people wouldn't even try. If you want a place in the history books, then do something dumb before you die…~" I sang back. "Drop the angst, Xander. It doesn't suit you."

.oOo.

"I am Kendra! The Vampire Slayer!"

.oOo.

Okay, I wasn't entirely shocked by this.

I might not have died against the Master, but after Halloween I'd had to consider that Kendra might be called.

The trouble was – I'd never actually seen Kendra. Hey, she's only around in, what, three episodes? I've seen a picture, yeah, and I was pretty sure it was her, but a still picture isn't as good for recognition purposes as hearing her talk, seeing her move. And of course, this assumes that she's simply turning up on schedule. Given she would have been called five months or so later than in the show...

I gave her a thoughtful look. "The Slayer... well you've got the strength, but so would a vampire..." She looked insulted and I smiled sweetly. "Of course, you think the same of me?" I flicked my wrist and the little 'charm bracelet' I'd obtained from Angel that first night in Sunnydale glittered in the light. Snaring the cross between two fingers, I held it up to her. "Please note that I'm not charring here."

Kendra looked skeptical and then gestured at my glass. "You are not a vampire? Then why do you drink blood?"

The look I shot her was exasperated. "It's _blackcurrant juice_ for cryin' out loud."

She glared at me and then lifted the glass and sniffed at it.

"So we've demonstrated that I'm not a vampire," I said coldly. "I suggest that you do likewise." I unwound the bracelet from my wrist and passed it to her. She lifted it and laid the cross against the palm of her hand. No reaction.

"Okay," I agreed. "So you're not a vampire either."

"I'm the Slayer," she all but sneered. At least, that's more or less how she spoke. The accent threw me off a bit. She offered me the cross back.

"Keep it," I told her. "I had a priest bless it – it brought me luck. Consider it a gift – from one Slayer to another."

She backed up, raising her fists. "There is but one Slayer, and I am she."

"Yeah, well," I said and shrugged. "Up until you turned up I would have said the same thing. It must be Thursday already…"

"Thursday?"

"All the weird stuff goes down on Thursday. Don't ask me why." I brushed past her on the way to the door. "C'mon."

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"_We_ are going to visit my Watcher. Maybe he can find out why there are two Slayers all of a sudden."

.oOo.

Giles was flummoxed. He paced back and forth as Kendra stood at attention by the table. I took my own customary position on the counter and tried to take up one of my breathing exercises. Kendra's existence didn't surprise me and nor did her presence, but it did unsettle me. And frankly, she annoyed the hell out of me.

Arrogant cow.

I could probably put up with her looking down on me physically – it's not my fault I'm short. But she obviously thought I was something of a joke as a Slayer and whatever _her_ Watcher had taught her, social subtlety was not on the curriculum.

"And your Watcher is, i-is Sam Zabuto, you say?" Giles asked.

"Yes sir."

"We've never met," Giles told us, "But he, he's, he's very well-respected."

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

"And you are called...?" Giles asked.

"I am the Vampire Slayer," she said simply. Note 'the' vampire slayer. Not 'a' vampire slayer. The. Obviously I don't count to her mind.

"I-I mean your name," he persisted.

"Oh," she said, in sudden understanding. "They call me Kendra. I have no last name, sir."

I frowned and broke her answer down. 'They' called her Kendra. Who were 'they'? Her watcher, this Zabuto character? No last name. Not she didn't know. Not that she didn't use it. No last name. As in raised without. Who by? Not her family probably, at least since she was a small child. And she called Giles 'sir'. Politeness, yes. Deference? She'd not been especially courteous to me – granted we'd been fighting, but even once my bona fides were established, I was viewed with suspicion. Giles instantly and automatically got 'sir'. I wondered if she reacted to all men like that or just Watchers.

"Uh, there's obviously some, some misunderstanding here," Giles said, moving on to the more pressing questions than Kendra's ties to the Watchers.

He was interrupted as Willow entered the library, a smile on her face. "Hey!" she said cheerfully, then broke off as Kendra wheeled upon her.

"Hi Willow," I said, before Kendra could say anything. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, real well," she assured me, not taking her eyes off of Kendra. "W-what's goin' on?"

"Willow, meet Kendra. Who is also apparently the Slayer," I explained.

"Is that even possible?" Willow asked, "I mean, two Slayers at the same time?"

"Not to my knowledge," Giles admitted. "Um, th-the new Slayer is only called after the previous Slayer has died."

"Halloween," I said, closing my eyes. "Not my favourite memory."

Giles frowned. "You think that Ethan's spell left you no longer the Slayer and that Kendra was called during the interval before the spell wore off?"

Interesting. I hadn't thought of that. Not the case I think – it's pretty clearly linked to Buffy drowning in the series, but it's a very plausible theory. "Not exactly," I said, keeping my eyes closed. I felt Willow's slim fingers against mine and I cupped her hand between my own, letting her support buttress me against the emotions. "I dressed as an Immortal that night. So long as I wasn't decapitated I _couldn't_ die – so when Spike drained me, the spell revived me."

"Oh good lord!" Giles exclaimed. "You were dead! Why didn't you tell me, Buffy?"

"I was only dead a minute," I replied defensively. "It's not like there were any lasting effects – well, until Kendra turned up."

"But you were physically dead," Giles exclaimed. "Of course, it all makes sense now."

"So there really are two of them!" Willow gasped. I squeezed her fingers slightly.

"It would seem so. This is completely unprecedented!"

"She died?" Kendra asked him.

"Hey, right here, you know," I said, opening my eyes to look at her irritably. "And why are you in Sunnydale, anyway?"

"I was sent here," she explained. "Mr. Zabuto said all the signs indicate that a very dark power is about to rise in Sunnydale."

"Like that's news. This is Sunnydale – dark powers arise on a weekly basis," I complained. Then I frowned. "Waitaminute – your Watcher sent you here?"

"Yes – is that a problem?"

I stood. "And you heard nothing about this, Giles?"

"Not a word," he confirmed.

"So the Watcher's Council sent you here," I snarled grimly to Kendra, "to fight this dark power. And they didn't tell you that I was here? Or tell me that you were coming? Are they total _idiots_? Don't they have the slightest notion about co-ordination? What if one of us had killed the other? That sort of information should be passed on as a matter of routine!"

.oOo.

"You talk about slaying like it's a job," she said. "It's not. It's who you are."

I shrugged and the smile on my face was a cold one. "Perhaps once," I conceded. "But I don't think that's true anymore."

Kendra frowned. "I do not understand."

"I was pretty pissed off when you turned up," I explained. "Saying you were _the_ Slayer. The only one, so to speak. Not because I think you're wrong. Because I think you might be right. Since Halloween..." I shook my head. "Since I died... it's not been the same. When you went into the church, you could feel the vampires, right?"

"Of course." Kendra looked surprised, then her eyes widened. "You could not?"

"I've always been a bit below par at that," I explained. "Giles and I did some research and there's quite a range of capability at the various, uh, effects of being the Slayer. I'm on the low end for the supernatural senses and the like. But I still had _some_. Now? Weird dreams, but that's it. I think when the Slayer spirit went to you, it took some of that with it. I've got the remnants – the physical capabilities, but not the full package anymore."

"So you think..."

I shrugged. "I think that you're the Slayer. And that I'm not. Just a remnant who still has the rep."

Kendra tilted her head and considered that. "No – you're still a Slayer." She tapped the side of her head. "In here. Still," she hesitated. "Still my sister."

I grinned a little weakly. "Yeah well I don't know how Dawn will feel about that."

I moved closer to hug her goodbye and she backed up. "I don't hug."

I gave her a mock scowl. "There's no escaping the soppy sister hug of doom. You've sealed your own fate."

Kendra sighed and submitted. "You are strange," she whispered before I let her go.

.oOo.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Xander asserted.

"Xander," Willow retorted. "He was obviously in charge."

"He was a puppet! She was using him!"

"He didn't seem the type of guy who would let himself be used," Willow said, sticking to her guns.

"Well that was her genius!" exclaimed Xander. "He didn't even know he was playing second fiddle." He turned to me. "Buffy."

"Mm?" I responded absently. It had been a boring patrol (unsurprising, I didn't do any of the risky stuff when the others were with me, partly because they might get hurt and partly because they might raise some silly moral objection to looting the bodies) but fortunately, it was almost over now.

"Who was the real power?" he asked. "The Captain, or Tennille?"

"Uh…" I said, racking my brain. "Who?" I'd never heard of them, although I later learned that they were a band from way back when.

"The Captain and Tennille?" Xander said incredulously. "Boy, someone was raised in a culture-free environment!"

"Do you think Priss and Leon get together?" I asked reasonably.

The two of them exchanged looks. "Er… who are Priss and Leon?" asked Xander, raising one finger questioningly.

"Now who's culture free?" Okay, a petty sort of jibe – I don't think AnimEigo have even licensed Bubblegum Crisis yet – but I can be a petty sort of person sometimes. Sorry about that.

.oOo.

"Willow! I could kiss you!" I said, looking at the list of marriage certificates. Then I paused and thought about that. "In fact… I think I will!"

.oOo.

"Impulsive?" I mused out loud. "Act on, you know, impulse? What a remarkable notion."

"You should try it," Willow assured me. "I mean, I -"

She didn't manage to finish her sentence, largely because I had leant forwards and pressed my lips gently against hers.

We stood there, kissing, her wide eyes staring into mine as heads turned. Then I straightened, moving away slightly. "Impulse," I said softly. "I like it."

.oOo.

The hospital was very quiet.

The parts I was in were quiet anyway. I guess the two cops flanking me and shooting wary looks in my direction tended to encourage discretion.

The expression on my face as I paced off the nervous energy flowing through me might have had something to do with it as well.

The police had 'allowed' me to accompany the others to hospital when I made it clear that they'd have to shoot me to get me to go anywhere else. Snyder would probably have had them shoot me anyway, but they weren't quite willing to go that far.

The score was quite brutal. Darla and Drusilla had gone through my friends with terrifying thoroughness. Kendra had received massive transfusions and was on full life support. The doctors didn't hold out any real hope of saving her and I wasn't sure how much further the vitality of being a Slayer could sustain her beyond their expectations.

The others – Xander had gotten off lightest with a broken arm. Amy had a nasty concussion and she'd lost a lot of blood – although not enough to put her at risk, thank god. Jesse had internal injuries and multiple broken ribs. There had been damage to his sternum so he wouldn't be walking for weeks. Willow was in a coma, the result of head trauma, and it was unsure if she'd wake up, although it the doctors were still quite hopeful.

And there were three missing.

Giles. Jenny. And –

"Buffy!"

No, that wasn't ri- I turned. "Dawn!" I was almost knocked from my feet by a bundle of preteen emotions as Dawn buried her face against me. I ignored the police officers as I wrapped my arms around her, my own tears flowing freely.

"You're okay?" I demanded fiercely.

"I ran," she wept. "I think I made it through three blocks before I realized nobody was chasing me." I tightened my arms around her. If a vampire had gotten to Dawn...

Hell would have regretted leaving a door where I could get at it.

"Buffy, what's going on?" asked my Mom. I looked up to see her in the doorway, looking enraged and terrified in equal measure. "Dawn called me to pick her up and when I went to the school, your Principal said..."

"I can imagine what he said," I said flatly. Lifting Dawn in my arms I nodded to one of the police officers and sat down, settling my sister in my lap. "You did good, Dawnie," I told her. "You did exactly the right thing."

She sniffled which I took to mean that she understood what I was saying, even if she didn't really believe it.

"Buffy." Mom was getting impatient.

"Someone attacked the library," I said flatly. "I was running an errand for Mr. Giles and I left Dawn there with Amy and the others for a few minutes. Mr Giles and Ms Calendar were both there when I left. When I came back..." I shook my head. "It looked like a typhoon had gone through it. There was no sign of Dawn or the adults, just the others and all of them were hurt."

Joyce gasped. "Are they alright?"

I shook my head. "None of them have woken yet. Will and Kendra might not wake up at all. I was giving Kendra CPR when the police arrived and Snyder accused me of doing it. Of hurting the others. That's why I'm under guard. Until the one of the others wakes up and gives their testimony I'm the main suspect."

The two officers looked uneasy under Mom's glare and I shook my head to stop her before she said anything. "They're doing their jobs, Mom. That's not their fault, it's Snyder's." They relaxed a bit. "Of course," I added sarcastically. "If the police department were up to scratch in the first place this might never have happened at all."

They glared at me but before they could say anything another officer came out of the ward my friends were in. "Mr Harris is awake," he said shortly. "And he's confirmed Ms Summers' story – she wasn't involved."

Some of the tension in the hall left. Just not the load on my shoulders. First Cordelia, now this.

I've killed Nest, I've killed Spike. And still they keep coming. Angelus. Darla. Drusilla.

It's enough. More than enough.

I remembered a line from the Sun Tzu, the book Giles gave me for my birthday.

This is Death Ground.

Time to take the fight to them.

.oOo.

The door to Giles' apartment was ajar when I got there. I had a moment of hope at that, before I remembered where Giles had ended up originally. Hopefully he and Jenny had been luckier this time.

"Giles!" I called as I entered the apartment. Not a sign of either of them.

"I don't think he's here," came a voice from the stairs. I turned and spotted a small man in the ugliest clothes I've ever seen. Well, I could make a guess or two about who he was.

"Who the hell are you?" I snarled.

"Whistler."

"The balance demon. Fuck. Last thing I needed was you clowns arsing around." I glared at him. "I'm on a timetable, puppet. What're you doing here?"

He flinched. "Waiting for you." Then he used a name and I froze in disbelief. Because he didn't call me Buffy Summers. He used my name. My _real_ name.

"You sonofabitch!" I whispered. "You did this. You sent me here."

"No! No!" he protested, backing up the stairs. "Wasn't us – well not really."

I glared. "You've got about three seconds to turn that into me not removing your lungs through your nose."

"Buffy was gone, that's not us. Someone had to replace her, we arranged for it to be you," he babbled.

"I'm listening," I told him in a flat voice, crossing my arms across my chest. "But make it fast."

He sighed. "Look, you know more about how this would have played out than I do. Buffy would have gotten kicked out of the house and left Sunnydale over the Slaying, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, she ran into a Vengeance Demon called Halfrek."

"Deals in, what...? abandoned kids? Abused kids?"

"Something like that. Buffy wished that she hadn't gone through everything that happened in Sunnydale. That someone else would be the Slayer. Halfrek granted the wish and made it so that 'someone else' would live Buffy's life from when she got to Sunnydale."

I didn't ask what happened to the original Buffy. Vengeance Demons don't generally grant wishes to suit those who make the wishes happy. "From then 'til when?"

"Always," Whistler said. "This is your life now."

"And you chose me for this? What, were you nuts?"

He shrugged. "It wasn't me personally. We couldn't let just anyone take over – whoever got the Slayer powers had to handle them responsibly under a lot of pressure. Buffy just couldn't keep it together, another reaction like that – well, the consequences could be cosmic in scale. You met the criteria, you had a suitable destiny, you had a basic knowledge of the situation…"

"Suitable destiny?"

"Short and, er, meaningless," he admitted. "You were never going to do anything important, kid. You were gonna die anyway, traffic accident. Instead, we just arranged to move you up the schedule a bit and instead of moving on, your soul came here."

"Just like that?"

Whistler laughed nervously. "Well, it was a major working, but, yeah… please don't hurt me?"

I shook my head. "I don't have time for you." And killing the bearer of bad news isn't a good idea, however satisfying it might be. "Tell me what you know about what's going on. If this is my world now I'd rather it didn't all go smash on my watch."

.oOo.

I'd done the research already, but I'd been keeping this in reserve for when I really, really needed it. And according to my expectations that wouldn't have been until Glory turned up. But, there had always been the chance of something going badly wrong and my needing them.

And that's why I was creeping around the caves under Sunnydale, looking for one very special demon.

There was a growling sound from behind me and I turned to see a rather large demon – of the brown and scaly variety with an extra order of thorns and not much of a neck – advancing on me.

"Hi!" I said brightly. "You'd be a Nezzla demon, right?"

More growls and it swung at me clumsily. I took that to be a yes – it sure matched the description and really – what other sort of demon would be hanging around this barrier?

"Look, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I'm really in a hurry. I need to borrow the Orbs of Nezzla'khan and I'm really not gonna take no for an answer." I hesitated. "Actually, borrow isn't really the word, is it. I'm gonna take them and use them and then I'll probably hide them someplace for future use."

It roared loudly and managed to get a grip on me for a moment, flinging me towards the barrier. I hit the floor and managed to stop rolling before I hit it. "Look, I'm sorry!" I shouted, "but really – it's this or Acathla! I can't stop him alone!"

For a moment the demon loomed over me and I pulled myself to my feet. It seemed... hesitant, then gestured towards one of the walls. I blinked in incomprehension and it grumbled something and pointed at me, then gestured again.

What? I edged towards the indicated wall and the Nezzla dashed past me and through the barrier before I could stop it.

Oh that's just great! Now what was I supposed to do? There was no way I could get through to Angelus on my own – there would be at least a dozen vampires besides Darla and Drusilla to slow me down, plus he'd almost certainly try to use Jenny and Giles as hostages.

And I... I couldn't let that stop me. Acathla was too dangerous.

I stood there for minutes, hoping for another crack at a Nezzla. Then I turned away. I needed to get to the Mansion before dawn and I still had to collect a few things from the library.

I'd only taken a few steps when I heard someone approaching from behind. Turning back I saw a Nezzla demon – the same one as before? I'm still not sure – lumbering towards me with a determined look on its face and a small wooden box in its hands.

It crossed the barrier and held the box out to me. I eyed it and then took it from him. The demon bowed reverently – to the box I think, not to me – and placed it's hand on top of the box. The sides glowed for a moment and I felt the lid loosen. The Nezzla took the lid off and then lifted the box out of my hands, holding it so that I could remove the contents.

Two small glass orbs, marked with white symbols.

The Orbs of Nezzla'khan!

I looked at the Orbs and then up at the demon holding them. "Why?"

The huge demon grated out a single word, obviously straining its vocal chords to pronounce "'kthla."

Whoa. I nodded in understanding and bowed to him and to the Orbs. "Thank you." Reaching into the box I lifted the orbs out, holding one in each hand. The demon stood back and looked at me expectantly.

"What now?" I asked him. I was holding the Orbs but I didn't feel any different. Then a bright purple light exploded from the two globes and surrounded me. I yelped in surprise, and then cried out as I felt power rip through me. It was almost... Oh god! It felt good. I could easily become addicted to that sensation.

A moment later it was over leaving me shaking. The demon grunted with what I guess was satisfaction and lumbered back through the barrier, leaving me standing alone, gazing down at the Orbs I was carrying.

Now then... how was I going to carry these things?

.oOo.

The library was always quiet. Now it was deathly silent.

There was police tape cordoning off most of the floor – protecting the evidence I suppose. Not that it would do the police any good but there were probably a few who thought it would help them catch the perpetrators. One way or another I doubted that would happen.

I ignored the tape – what I wanted was in the book cage. I did spare a glance for the scattered spell components – the materials that might have brought back Cordelia. Not much chance of that now. Oh well. I'd never been terribly in favour of it anyway. Let her soul rest in peace.

The cage was locked but Giles kept a spare key in a box under the counter so I didn't have any trouble opening it. I opened the weapons locker and started picking through it. No, no, no... aha. There it was. I pulled the long-handled crescent axe out of the cupboard. Looked like it could do a bit of damage. I couldn't find the sword I needed and then spotted Kendra's bag – still under the table in the main part of the room.

I ducked under the tape and was pulling the bag out when I heard the door open. "You do know this is a crime scene, don't you?" Great, Snyder. I ignored him and unzipped the bag. Aha! One broadsword, blessed by the knight who took down Acathla last time. "But then... you're a criminal, so that pretty much works out."

I closed the bag and replaced it under the table and approached him, carrying the sword. "You're _deeply_ stupid, aren't you," I told him. "The police know I had nothing to do with it." I went back to the cage and provided myself with a scabbard for the sword and clipped it at locket and chape to the scabbard of my bokken, slinging the pair of them diagonally across my back, hilts above my right shoulder.

"It doesn't matter anyway," he said in a satisfied tone. "You've proved too much of a liability for this school." He took a deep breath and his voice took a confiding tone. "These are the moments you want to savour. You wish time would stop so that you could live them over and over again." He smiled smugly. "You're expelled."

I looked at him pityingly and lifted then axe. "Like I said. _Deeply_ stupid. Do you really think that that matters now?" I stalked towards him, keeping the axe low, and he backed up towards the counter. "You don't have any idea, do you? You know a few things about what goes on after the sun sets and you think that you know everything? You don't know anything."

I turned and headed for the door. "Right now? You'd better pray I come back. The alternative is much, _much_ worse."

.oOo.

"Oh trust me," I said with a distant calm. "They'll be distracted all right."

"Buffy, there at least three Master Vampires in there. They took down Kendra and she's the Slayer now. You're not…" Xander broke off. "You're not the Slayer anymore. Are you sure you can do this?"

"Yes."

"Cuz, no pressure or anything, but the whole world's at risk here."

"Yes."

Xander frowned. "Why're you all Ms. Monosyllable all of a sudden?"

I turned my head to face him. "Ask me later. It's time."

He might have said something… but I didn't hear him as I raised my axe in both hands and charged headlong at the mansion's heavy door, launching myself in a leaping kick. I did hear an incredulous chuckle from him in the moment before I hit the door feet first, with a shout of "CANNON DRILL!"

.oOo.

The door was sturdy and well secured, so it didn't explode as my feet hammered into it. Nor did the hinges break from the frame. I was seriously impressed by the craftsmanship, but it didn't matter.

Because the combination of the Slayer's strength and the Orbs of Nezzla'khan was sufficient that I blasted the entire door _and_ frame out of the wall as a single piece and sent it skidding through the entrance hall. There were two vampires guarding the door but momentum was on my side as I rode the door across the room. One was crushed under the door and the other crumbled to dust as I 'surfed' past him.

I took a moment to kick the half-crushed bloodsucker's head off of its shoulders and heard Xander running after me as I plunged deeper into the mansion. I hadn't been terribly quiet and that meant I was on the clock.

I heard Angelus' voice raised in surprise from behind the door at the far end of the hall and I smashed the door open with the axe, not even breaking stride.

There they were.

Angelus was stood in front of Acathla, head turned in annoyance at the interruption. He was flanked by Darla and Drusilla. No sign of Cordy, but there were at least a dozen other vampires in the room. No sign of Giles or Jenny either. Damn.

My lips curled. "Oh! Am I interrupting something? Sooooorry!"

"I don't have time for you," Angelus told me.

I shrugged. "You shouldn't keep leaving loose ends lying around then." I flicked my axe almost idly and the vampire who was trying to flank me went flying against the wall, whereupon he dissolved into dust. "You didn't really think it was going to be _that_ easy, did you?"

He chuckled. "Coming on kind of strong, don't you think? You're playing some deep odds here. Do you really think you can take us all on?"

I grinned and hurled my axe at him in blur of spinning metal that crossed the room in less time than it took for a camel to spit.

He dodged of course. "Missed me," he taunted like a schoolboy.

I smirked. "Wasn't aiming for you."

He whirled and then screamed in frustration as he saw that the sword embedded in Acathla was reduced to about half the blade. I wasn't really paying attention though. The minute he turned away, I whipped out my bokken and laid into the assembled vampires.

The next few moments were a whirlwind of combat as I snatched up a candelebra (unlit obviously) in my left hand and used it to beat back the horde of vampires while I laid into them with the bokken.

I'd take heart shots if I could get them, but they weren't too forthcoming, so I left more vampires lying on the ground or embedded in the walls and furniture, waiting for their shattered joints and skulls to regenerate than I left as piles of dust.

None of them even laid a finger on me until Darla leapt into the fray. She'd obviously been practising, because her punch crashed against the side of my face with all the power of a Japanese bullet train. My head snapped around and I back-stepped as every other vampire around me tensed to leap upon me.

Then I snapped my head around to face Darla and my lips were wide in a feral grin.

She was too close for me to thrust at her, but I brought the bokken up and across in a flawless cut, almost the entire length of the 'blade' making contact with her torso at the same instant. If it had been a real katana, she would have come apart on me. Instead, the bokken hardly slowed as it continued up and across to decapitate another vampire.

Darla's body curved gracefully up and into the air, in a macabre imitation of a somersault that came apart as she crashed through one of the interior walls.

The vampires drew back and I saw fear in their eyes. "Oh yeah," I whispered into the silence, knowing they could hear me perfectly. "Can you hear the Bob Dylan?"

"Bob Dylan?" asked one of the vampires, obviously young and dumb – dumber, anyway.

I lunged and drove my bokken into his chest, ripping it out and cutting down one of his friends who was looking a little too lively for my liking. "Blowing in the wind, arsehole."

"The naughty princess is strong," Drusilla announced, having been mercifully quiet until now. Her eyes were dark and dreamy as she stepped towards me. "But she has stolen the strength of another."

Dark eyes locked with mine and I felt a curious lassitude fall upon me. I felt my eyelids lower and a numbness in my mind. I was tired and sad and filled with grief. There was no room for anger, no room for hate. I felt the welcoming peace of those dark pools of eyes…

"GRAAAAAAAARGH!" I shouted and tore my mind free of Drusilla's influence. Eyes wild I leapt forward with an animal scream as I opened my hands, heedless of the weapons I dropped in the mad need to close my hands around the stunned looking vampiress.

The vampires parted around me as I lunged across the room and Drusilla reeled backwards under my frenzied assault. In the six paces it took to pin her up against the wall I'd broken her nose, driven one clawing finger through her right eye and reduced her antique gown to a tattered ruin.

"Oh you do _not_ try that mind control shit on me," I snarled as her whimper of terror inspired my higher mental functions to finish rebooting. Then I drove my hand forwards and upwards, up beneath her ribcage.

"Daddy," Darla whimpered pleadingly as my hand closed around her dead heart. "Daddy."

When I closed my hand, it was filled with dust.

I turned back to the vampires in the room. "Well now," I whispered, letting the dust pour out of my hand. "I guess the way to her heart really _was_ through her stomach."

.oOo.

The vampires were dead or fled. Darla still hadn't returned to the fight. Drusilla was just a part of the dust on the floor.

"Now that's everything, huh?" I asked Angelus mockingly. "No demon... No minions... No hope. Take all that away... and what's left?"

The response was one I had never in my direst nightmares thought I'd hear.

"How about, oh I don't know… me?" asked Heinrich Joseph Nest as he swept into the room, Cordelia Chase on his arm. She looked like a million dollars. He looked… pretty revolting actually. He and leather didn't really go well together. And then there's the whole vampire face thing...

"Bugger," I said.

.oOo.

The Master stepped forwards and then halted as Cordelia, rather than letting go of his arm, held it tighter and tugged gently on it. "What is it?" he asked, rather impatiently.

"There's something I need to say to Buffy before you kill her."

"And why, my dear, should I indulge you in this?" the ancient and reborn vampire snapped.

"Because it will hurt her," Cordelia said matter-of-factly. "Don't you want to break her heart?"

The Master shrugged and opened his mouth to voice what looked from his face to be a refusal when Angelus spoke up. "Just make it quick, Cordelia. We've all got our plans for Little Miss Vampire Slayer."

The two male vampires glared at each other and then the Master shrugged. "You see what happens when you indulge a child?" he asked rhetorically. "Oh go ahead, but make it entertaining."

"I can hear my soul, Buffy," said the demon with Cordelia's face. "Did you know that?"

I shook my head, wondering where this conversation was going.

"Most vampires can't," she replied candidly. "Just me and Drusilla. We're special, because Angelus made us like this."

Well if Cordelia's death had been anything like Drusilla's, then she was right. It did hurt to hear that.

"She doesn't like me very much," Cordelia confided. "But there's someone she hates more than me, Buffy. She hates you. She hates you even more than I do. I don't think she ever told you that, did she?"

.oOo.

I rose to my feet. Drusilla, check. Angelus, check. Cordelia… I'm sorry Cordy, requiem in pacet, check. Joseph Nest, check? I crushed his skull under my boot. Yeah, check. No one's gonna be reviving him now. I fished through my jacket until I found a condom full of holy water that hadn't ruptured during the fight, and emptied it over the remains. Better safe than sorry.

What did that leave?

Oh yeah. No point in taunting Angelus about leaving loose ends if I'm going to make the same mistakes.

I had spotted movement through Darla's hole in the wall during the fight, so I was cautious stepping through it.

There wasn't anyone waiting for me though. No, perhaps I was wrong about that. There was someone, it just wasn't the scorched place on the carpet where a vampire had obviously burned in the sunlight that streamed through an open window. Someone had pried the cover off and the vampire had obviously taken a direct shot of the rising sun.

But there was someone else in the sun.

Giles's eyes stared emptily at the ceiling.

"Oh god, no!" I gasped and leapt to his side.

There was blood underneath him – fresher than the dried blood on his clothes and I could see the two holes in the side of his neck. I lowered my face over his but there was no breath against my cheek, no movement of his chest. "Giles… please, no..." Hot tears trickled down my face and fell onto his as I lifted his… his body and held it against mine. "Please don't be dead."

.oOo.

Rupert Giles

Father * Teacher * Beloved

1954-1998

His Legacy is Our Future

.oOo.

I picked up the phone, opened Giles' phone book to 'T' and dialled the first digits for a call to England. Then I dropped the phone handset back onto the cradle, closed the book and went to sit at Giles' chair in front of Giles' desk to think about it a little more.

Rinse and repeat. I'd been doing this for most of the morning.

At that, I wasn't doing one hell of a lot better than the rest of the guys. Willow and Kendra hadn't woken up yet. On the other hand, they hadn't died either – good thing. However, that left the gang gathered around Jenny in the library badly depleted: Jesse in his wheelchair; Amy who still had bandages around her head; and Xander, sunk into deep depression over his 'failure'.

The fact that he'd killed Darla by opening the shutters over the east-facing window while she was busy didn't seem to register. Nor did the miracle that he'd even managed to get Jenny out of the mansion, given the number of vampires in it. All he could see was the death of Giles and that he had not been able to prevent it.

Irony. The real Buffy would know what it was to feel that way – Merrick being her case study. Now I did too – because I was the one who'd thrown Darla into that room. I'd not known, of course, that Xander would use that route to take the tortured Giles and Jenny out of the mansion. And I'd not been able to follow up and finish her while I still had Angelus and Drusilla to fight, along with a coterie of their minions and the resurrected Heinrich Joseph Nest.

And, of course, the reason that Jesse was mourning for two people tonight.

Cordelia Chase had died last year. Now the demon that had taken her body was back in hell. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

And I, of course, was waffling over a phone call.

Funny how some people cope, isn't it.

No. It's not funny.

My hand closed around the handset again.

.oOo.

"I'm calling for a Quentin Travers."

"I'm calling with regard to Mr. Rupert Giles – a correspondent of Mr. Travers I believe."

"Mr. Travers. My name is Buffy Summers – I believe Mr. Giles may have mentioned my name to you once or twice."

"I regret to inform you that Mr. Giles died two nights ago."

"A vampire. She's dead, if that provides any satisfaction."

"I understand."

"Yes."

"No, he'll be buried here, where I can keep an eye on him."

"Bloody bastard," I said quietly as I put the phone down.

.oOo.

That, in case you hadn't guessed was my side of my first conversation with Quentin Travers. As you can tell, we didn't exactly take to one another.

.oOo.

"What was that?" asked Jenny as I left Giles' office.

"I called the Watcher's Council to let them know Giles is dead."

"Long call," she commented.

"Long time working up the gumption to make the call. As for the council: how sad, too bad, we'll send out a replacement. Arseholes."

The library was still a shambles from two nights ago. Following the attack on the mansion, I'd gone home and slept the sleep of, if not the just, then at least of the rather fatigued. Waking late in the afternoon, I'd had time to visit the hospital and explain to Jesse and Amy what was going on. Then I'd dragged Xander out of his funk back to the bungalow and we'd slept there (in separate bedrooms, gutterbrains!) on the grounds that I wasn't going to leave him either with his parents or alone.

Jenny had been with us, for similar reasons to Xander's, and now we had gathered in the school library to regroup. I suppose technically I shouldn't have been there, having been expelled by Snyder less than thirty-six hours ago, but honestly, how concerned do you think I am about school rules?

.oOo.

"…controlled circumstances, of course," an unfamiliar someone said as I entered the library next morning.

"So you don't have any actual experience, then?" Jenny said cuttingly to a youngish fellow in what looked like a moderately expensive suit. "Hello Buffy."

"Morning, Janna," I replied. The man turned to face me and I recognised him instantly. "You'd be Wyndham-Pryce then?"

"Well… yes," he admitted, stepping forwards, holding his hand in greeting. I looked at it for a moment and then gripped it firmly, for a firm shake. "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce."

"Mr. Pryce is your new Watcher," Jenny said quietly, sitting down at the table.

I released Wesley's hand to put one hand comfortingly on Jenny's shoulder. There wasn't really anything to say that would help her, so there was an all too brief moment of shared grief before Wesley opened his fat mouth.

"Why don't you tell me everything about last night's patrol?"

I sighed. Oh bloody hell.

"It would be more productive to begin with your briefing," I told him. "Take a seat and take notes, there will be a short test following the lecture."

"Lecture?" Wesley asked, looking up from an open Watcher Diary with a look of some distress on his face.

"Siddown and shut up," I snarled. He complied. Bloody hell, if he folds like that in the face of a small blonde getting assertive, how'll he respond to some Big Bad? Not well, I suspect.

"I don't know what you were told back in England," I began. "However, I will remind you that whoever briefed you there was five thousand odd miles from the Hellmouth and was probably among the clique who've been sitting back and withholding information for no valid reason, damn near causing Kendra's death because they couldn't get off their arses. I will therefore assume that you know nothing and work from there."

"You are sat on the Hellmouth. Quite literally on it in fact. If the Hellmouth opens – and attempts to cause that are biannual at least – then humanity can look forward to a brief existence as cattle before demons the size of dinosaurs wipe us from the face of the universe. What stands between humanity and that fate is a motley crew of the inexperienced, the ill-trained and the ill-equipped – most of whom are school children. The Watcher's Council feels its job is to sit back in wealth and comfort while awarding points for our obeying their rules. You may note a certain bitterness – no, you aren't imagining it."

"I have nothing personally against you, but you are stepping into very large shoes. Rupert Giles was one hell of a Watcher and his death was a tremendous loss to us. Quite apart from the deep affection that we held him in, his responsibilities were considerable and must now be filled by others. I gather that Janna – Miss Calendar – is not impressed by your field experience?"

"I've killed two vampires," he protested.

"Under 'controlled circumstances'," Jenny quoted bitterly.

"That is better than nothing," I said calmly. "However, in comparison to the rest of the team you are a rank novice in fieldwork. That can be remedied. Very well. As Watcher, your two primary duties are the provision of occult information and logistical support. The latter is problematic for a several reasons that I will go into shortly. The information side will be the key factor in your usefulness. What are your research qualifications?"

He hesitated. "I've spent the last few years as Mr. Travers librarian," he said. "And I had the usual training. I should have no difficulty in that area."

"Good," I said. "I take it that you've made arrangements to fill the role of school librarian here?"

"Uh, yes. Yes, I have."

"Alright. The library is currently our major base of operations. If necessary I have a small stock of back-up equipment and a few of the more useful texts at home and I maintain a small property outside of town where we're building up a more substantial arsenal and library. In addition to the loss of Giles, the recent fighting with the Order of Aurelius has left practically everyone in the group injured – right now you and I are the only ones not on the sick list. Fortunately there appears to be something of a lull in local supernatural activity – there's been some fallout from the Order's defeat and some infighting over their turf."

"For the moment, you have the general responsibility of restoring and rebuilding this facility. I understand that you need to keep records – I will provide regular reports for that purpose, but you are not in charge and any attempt to treat members of my team as your 'soldiers' will not be accepted. If you demonstrate that you aren't a REMF then -"

"Excuse me," he said, raising his hand slightly. "REMF?"

"Rear Echelon Mother Fucker," I translated. He blushed. Unbe-Smegging-lievable. Where did the Council find him?

"In any event," I said. "You also have a particularly important mission. During the recent crisis, I was expelled from Sunnydale High School on questionable grounds, by the Principal. Since free access to the school is necessary in order to protect the Hellmouth, you'll need to arrange for that to be overturned. I suggest that you also arrange the admission of Kendra once she recovers. Having her Slayer senses on the campus everyday would be very useful."

.oOo.

Principal Snyder, to say the least, was not happy to see me. The thought of being able to say no cheered him up though. "Absolutely not. Under no circumstances."

"But you can't keep her out of school," Mom protested. "You don't have the right."

He smirked. "I have not only the right, but also a nearly physical sensation of pleasure at the thought of keeping her out of school. I'd describe myself as tingly."

"Buffy was cleared of all those charges."

"Yes. And while she may live up to the not-a-murderer requirement for enrollment, she is a troublemaker, destructive to school property and the occasional student," Snyder looked positively gleeful.

"Mom, perhaps I should handle this," I said, opening the folder on my lap. Wesley, bless his little cotton socks, had come through for me. Mom gave me a puzzled look – she didn't know what I had.

"Now then Principal," I said cheerfully. "I've had a very productive set of discussions with the Mayor, several members of the School Board and with a representative of the California Board of Education. What I've discussed with them includes my grade point average, disciplinary record, testaments on my character from quite a number of students, staff and residents of Sunnydale and, in the case of the Mayor, the possibility of international investigations of the local police and medical establishments."

I passed him photocopies of several of the letters. "Now, as you'll see, they all seem to be quite firmly in favour of my returning to Sunnydale High School. On that basis, I'm not asking you for anything. I'm offering you a choice between this being your opportunity to welcome me with - metaphorically - open arms, or this being a preliminary to a formal complaint lodged with the authorities that will see me reinstated as a student and you with serious problems obtaining employment – although Hot Dog on a Stick is hiring, so maybe your prospects aren't so dire."

He gaped. "International investigation? You're insane, you could _never_ arrange that."

"No?" I said mildly. "You forget, Rupert Giles was a British national – if his family, who are politically connected, choose to raise a stink then the federal government will be very accommodating. And the Mayor would really rather avoid that sort of attention."

"Now, personally, you understand, I'd be delighted to see you squirm. But I have other obligations and from that perspective it would be slightly preferable not to expend the resources to get you kicked out. Slightly." I steepled my fingers. "Now, I believe that we understand each other?"

Snyder almost choked to death as he welcomed me back into Sunnydale High School.

.oOo.

"Glorificus!" I shouted, cracking my knuckles. "Exile! Loser! Outcast! Condemned One!"

The rubble shifted and she threw back the largest chunks, her pretty dress all torn and her hair a mess. Say it with me: awwww!

"Impudent little _bitch_!" she snarled.

"Glory," I said grimly. "It is my feeling that you and I need to talk. One woman to another."

"Out of my _way_, Slayer!" Glory shouted. "I am a _Goddess_! You and your kind are nothing but _pondscum_. If you won't stop trying to keep from my Key then I'll swat you aside like the bug you…"

She swung her fist to do just that. The impact when I caught it in my right hand drove my heels almost an inch into the ground. I could feel the bones in our hands grind under the forces behind them. Glory was used to brushing opponents aside. She wasn't used to actually fighting. I ploughed a straight left into her jaw, thanking God for the Orbs of Nezzla'khan.

Glory hit the ground heavily and spat out droplets of blood. She stared down as if she didn't recognise it, then wiped away the traces at the side of her mouth with the back of her hand. "You…" she gasped. "You stupid, selfish little monkey…"

"I am Buffy Ann Summers, Guardian of the Hellmouth. You've transgressed, against my sister. Against my family. Against _me_. Get up."

She obliged, leaping up and towards me, fists clenched and set to deliver strikes that would have obliterated entire buildings. "Wh-who do you think you _are_?" she spat. "Who do you think you are to order _me_? I'll…"

I backhanded her with my right fist, snapping her head backwards and flinging her to the floor. "I am Buffy Ann Summers, Guardian of the Hellmouth. Get up."

"Glorificus…!" wailed one of the little monstrosities Glory had brought with her.

"For god's sake, shut _up_!" hissed Faith, slapping it on the side of head. "Let me watch her work."

"Unngh," Glory groaned from the floor. "I-I'll kill you for this. I'll _kill_ you. I am the _stronger_, the _purer_!" She might have been more convincing if I hadn't been hoisting her off the floor by her face. "You are of the filth and my blood is divine…"

"Yes," I agreed. "And it is on your clothes. On my hands. On the ground. Little girl, I do not believe you have yet understood the _trouble_ you are in. I do not believe you understand just who you have _offended_."

"mom?" I heard Dawn whisper from behind me. "God, I'm glad you're _okay_, but… Buffy's in a real bad _mood_. I'm scared she might do something _serious_."

Joyce's voice was equally faint. "Dawn, when your sister is like this, it scares _me_. We have to keep out of this…"

"I just want to go _home_!" Glory shrieked at me.

"So do I," I replied coldly. "But if you do as you wish then all _our_ homes will be destroyed."

"I don't care about you!"

"Likewise," I told her and released her face, locking one hand around her throat. She lashed out towards my head and we stood, facing each other – both with a hand around the other's wrist, trying to force those deadly hands away before her neck broke or my brain got sucked out.

Xander, bless him, broke the deadlock. There was no possible way that the stake he threw at her could have hurt Glory. But she flinched anyway – I guess she was having a bad enough day as it was and didn't want to chance him being up to something that could threaten her. I took the opportunity to shove her hand aside and butted her in the face, feeling her nose shatter as my forehead crunched against it. It cost me my grip on her throat but that wasn't working too well anyway.

She staggered and I took the opportunity to reverse her hold on my wrist and bring her arm up in a twist that it really wasn't hinged for. It dislocated and Glory screamed in agony before whirling faster than my eyes could follow and unleashing what I will confess was one hell of a left hook.

The next thing I knew I was embedded half way into a wall. With a growl I jerked loose and ran at her. She was trying, rather ineptly, to pop her shoulder back into joint and her guard was pathetic. My palm strike caught her right under the ribs and she ralphed all over me as I kept driving my hand into her, lifting her off the floor and them slamming her down with brutal force.


	2. Slayer Moon

**A/N**: I had plans for an eventual sequel to Here's Your Accordion, where the luckless SI gets moved along to replace Sailor Moon in the anglicized version of the manga.

* * *

There was a terrible sense of deja vu to waking up under cozy covers, with a mother's voice summoning me to breakfast. It had, after all, happened to me more than once. Not that there was anything terrible about what I've described - not at all.

It's just that it wasn't the bed I'd gone to sleep in - nor a mother that I'd heard the voice of before.

Trust me, when you get deja vu about that, your life is getting just a teensy bit complicated.

"Bunny!" came the voice again. "It's past eight o'clock!"

I crawled out from under the covers and called "Coming!" loud enough, I hoped, to be heard by whoever was yelling at me. Then I braced myself for the worst and looked into the mirror on top of the bedroom dresser.

I started whimpering almost immediately.

Blonde hair - an almost perfect match for the shade I had enjoyed in a previous life. Blue eyes - not quite right but close - I think. It's getting hard to remember for sure but I think that mine were darker than the eyes was now looking out of. Female - oh well. Male would have been nice, but I'm sure I can manage being a girl again. Two incredibly long (practically floor length!) ponytails descending from fist-sized knots of hair sticking up in the approximate location of Mickey Mouse ears.

I whimpered some more. Not only were they very silly, the meatball-head arrangement was far too distinctive.

If you haven't guessed whose body I'd suddenly found myself riding, then you've obviously been hiding under some damp rock for the last decade or so of pop culture.

It's not that I have an axe to grind against the Sailor Moon cartoon or the protagonist (although Dawn was more of a fan). It's just that I'm about twice her age. It was bad enough going through the late teenage years again as Buffy. What malevolent fate had condemned me to experience the early teenage years as 'Bunny'? And what was with that name? I thought she was called Serena, or Usagi.

"I'm going to kill Whistler," I muttered to myself and grabbed the school uniform hanging from the back of the door. At least the skirt was a decent length.

=/=

Not being the Slayer (or a reasonable substitute) is a tremendous drag. I'd almost forgotten over the last couple of years what it was like to lack the boundless energy and I didn't enjoy being reminded of it. It would, apart from anything else, have come in very handy trying to get to Crossroads Junior High School within a quarter hour. Particularly when I didn't know where it was.

As it was, I went around a couple of blocks before I got lucky enough to catch sight of a a big building that looked just like every Japanese school I ever saw in an anime, with a couple of girls in uniforms that looked like mine going in through the gates. I crossed my fingers for luck and ran as if I was fleeing hell, not heading for what might as well be another Hellmouth.

Naturally, that was the moment when something black crossed my path and I tripped over it. A black cat. Great, losing the Slayer powers hadn't saved me from the associated lousy luck, had it? And winding up flat on my face on the pavement was just another reminder that being the Slayer had had some compensations that I was currently missing.

I looked closer at the cat, my vague recollections of the TV show suggesting that a black cat might be... yep. Two bandaids, stuck across the cat's forehead. Although, as I recalled it, Bunny (or Serena or Usagi) had rescued Luna from a bunch of kids, not just tripped over her in the street.

Nonetheless, I seemed to have hold of her, so I shrugged off the concern and lifted Luna to peel away the bandaids from her crescent moon mark. "Try not to get trampled," I advised her, lowering her to the top of the wall beside the pavement.

Then the bell rang and I resumed my mad dash for the school gates.

The school was, fortunately, the correct institution of torment... er, I mean learning of course. Even more luckily, 'Bunny' had marked her class number on her satchel, so I was able to track down the right classroom with relative ease. Just one of the ways that Crossroads Junior High was infinitely better than Sunnydale High I guess - at Sunnydale, rooms weren't marked all that clearly.

"You're late again, Bunny," called a girl from near the front of the room as I stepped through the open door. Fortunately there was no teacher yet, but I guess the girl in question must have been class president or something.

I raised one hand casually in greeting. "I'm sorry," I replied with considerably more cheer than I felt. "I got lost on the road of life." My stomach grumbled as I took my seat (those were numbered as well - say what you will about the Japanese, their schools are usefully anal about some things). Great. I'd been in such a rush to find school that I hadn't even managed to have breakfast - something that approaches a mortal sin in my personal cosmology.

I did manage to scare Miss H though - that was the homeroom teacher. She was actually Miss Haruna, but everyone called her Miss H. I didn't find out her real name until later. What scared her was the fact that I was paying attention. Bunny, it would seem, is even less interested in the 'wonders' of a modern education than Xander is - hard to believe, yet somehow true. The expression on Miss H's face when I started actually taking notes from her corrections to the English test was something to behold, although it was rather less amusing when I realised other students were edging their desks away from mine.

"Hey Bunny!" called one of the boys in the class after Miss H retreated in confusion. I was pretty sure I'd seen him in a couple of episodes but I couldn't recall his name off hand. Assuming that it was even the same as the one in the cartoon anyway. But he was a recurring character, so he was probably important somehow. "How come you're paying attention all of a sudden?"

I held up the English test with a grimace. It definitely hurt my pride to admit to a bad grade, particularly when it wasn't my fault! "I'm going to be in really big trouble for this," I predicted. "I can't let it happen again."

"But this test was a breeze! I didn't even study much for it!" the boy said, taking the paper from me.

"Nor did I," I said, reasonably confident that Bunnry really hadn't. "And I think I should have."

"Wow!" he said, looking at the score. "How'd you do this badly?"

"Oooh!" pouted the girl I was sat next to me, someone I thought was another important character. It was a little difficult to match actual appearances to the fairly stylized animated images I recalled. "You are obnoxious, Melvin!"

Aha! I knew that name, right out of the anime. I'd found myself a nerd-boy. That could be very useful.

The girl's name was Molly and she remembered being Bunny's friend, which would have made it awkward to ditch her. Besides, I'm fairly sure that I recall Dawn getting weepy about her tragic romance thing with one of the Dark Generals. Frankly, I thought it cut a bit too close to the bone - fortunately I'd not been dumb enough to get close to Angelus. But in any event, it meant that Molly was potentially important so her friendship would be useful for reasons beyond the usual motivations for making friends.

Oh dear. That sounded a bit cynical, didn't it? It wasn't meant that way.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I ended up eating lunch with Molly and a couple of other girls. Given the fact that I'd spent a good sized chunk of the last couple of years with Dawn as a sister and Willow and Amy as friends, I would have thought that my skills at 'girl talk' would have been well-honed, but I suspect that even Cordelia's girly-fu would have been challenged by the converation.

"Did you hear?" asked May. "There was another jewelry store robbery last night!"

"How scary!" Molly explained. Since her mother owned a jewelry store, that probably cut too close to home - prophetically so if I guessed correctly.

"Yeah, but Sailor V nabbed the thieves," Melvin assured her. I'm not quite sure how he managed to wind up eating lunch with a bunch of girls, but it was a skill that would doubtless be of use to him in the future.

"Sailor V?" I asked quickly. With just a a little bit of luck, I figured, Melvin could confirm how close matters were to my ever so slightly hazy recollections of how matters lay at this point in time.

"You haven't heard of her?" he replied in surprise. "Defending against evil in a schoolgirl uniform! Some say she's just an undercover cop, what will they come up with next!?" Melvin declared, obviously dismissive of the theory. "Toto, we're not in kansas anymore. Nope - this is the big city. With all the bizarre and hideous crimes nowadays, the news is more action-packed than a Schwarzenegger movie."

Ha ha. After two years, more or less, on the Hellmouth, I doubted that the 'hideous crimes' of a show aimed at twelve-year old girls would shock me that much. Sad but true: I'm a just a little bit jaded about such things. The other girls were more excited about the whole matter though.

"Wow, a jewelry store! I wish I could see those thieves' loot!"

"Yeah, it must be full of gorgeous diamonds and rubies. I like diamonds," added May as an aside.

"Doesn't your mother own a jewelry store?" I asked Molly.

"Yeah," she confirmed. "And you know what? She's having a huge sale. Wanna check it out?"

Melvin practically had to dive for cover as the girls converged on Molly instantly in a display of feminine enthusiasm. I guess that it's one of those things that you have to be all girl to understand though, so I kept at the back. My main reaction to gemstones these days is to wonder if they're cursed. I swear there must be a whole industry in laying curses on the damned things - and they're a pain in the ass to fence. At least if a vampire's been looting gold, I can melt it down and get weight value without having to worry about it being stolen someplace.

By the time we reached the jewelry store it was pretty packed - and the signs in the windows were a pretty good reason for that being the case. It looked as if Molly's mother had decided to unload diamonds at low enough prices that De Beers would likely be dispatching a hit squad at any moment.

"Hi Molly," called out the lady in question. "You're back from school."

"Hi Mom," Molly replied uncertainly.

"It's crowded," her mother advised the rest of us. "But go ahead and find something you like. Bunny," she added, smiling sweetly at me, "You get a special discount."

The other girls squealed with excitement and plunged into the store but Molly and I looked uneasily at each other as her mother went back to hawking her stock. "My Mom's really packing 'em in," Molly said. "She's like a used car salesman."

"Like a used car salesman about to go broke," I replied, wincing at one bargain. "You probably have a better idea than me about what those cost, but isn't she losing money hand over fist?"

"I'm sure she knows what she's doing," Molly said, but despite the loyalty of her words, there was no conviction in her voice.

I sighed. "You're the expert. Anyway, there's no way I can afford anything, even at a seventy percent discount, so I'd better go face the music. Mom's not gonna be happy about my English grade."

"It can't be all that bad," Molly assured me. "Melvin was probably messing with you." I passed her the test and she blinked as she read the grading. "Oh Bunny..." she groaned. "That's awful, even for you." Then she perked up. "Can I have your earrings when your Mom kills you?"

I groaned and fainted dramatically into her arms. "You're a true friend, Molly," I told her, throwing the test aside.

"Thanks a lot, cow-tails!" came an annoyed voice from behind me. "Right in my face. Try a wastebasket next time."

I turned and saw a dark haired guy a few years older than me, all done up in a tuxedo that looked like it belonged at a diplomatic reception about a hundred years ago. The funky post-modern shades clashed badly with the rest of the outfit.

"Actually I thought you were a penguin at first," I shot back. "But what would a penguin be doing here? So then I figured you must be a decorative trash can." I paused. "A tasteless decorative trash can."

He looked down at the paper and smirked. "Well that's about as smart as I'd expect from someone who got as little as a thirty percent grade on this," he said, and threw the paper back to me.

We glared at each other and then went our seperate ways. That was my first meeting with Darien Shields, and as you can tell, we didn't precisely take to each other.

"You're home a little late, honey," was the greeting I got from Bunny's mother once I found my way back to the house that was my new home. "I ran into your friend Melvin earlier. He got a ninety-five on his quiz - how did you do?"

"I knew he'd done well," I replied. "It would be nice if he didn't rub it everyone else's face like that - he's not making any friends - but at least he has something to brag about."

She looked at me suspiciously. "Why do I get the impression that you didn't score quite so well as Melvin did?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe because you know me quite well? Have I ever gotten a grade as good as Melvin's?" I asked a little sourly. "I've got to go get started on my homework - I want to go over that quiz in detail and see where I went wrong."

'Mom' paled. "Are you feeling alright, Bunny?" she asked. "Do you think you might be coming down with something?"

"Yeah," agreed another voice from the door, and I spotted a little brat - almost certainly Bunny's little brother - who'd come into the house behind me. "Since when did you do your homework without prompting, sis'?"

I considered what to say and then came up with an explanation to cover for my change in attitude. Anyone who knew me wouldn't be surprised to discover that I took my inspiration from a TV show. "I don't like being humiliated, Mom. And being the tallest girl in next year's eighth grade would be very humiliating."

Bunny's - my - mom frowned. "But you're in eighth grade this year, Bunny," she said. "Are your teachers'..."

I shook my head sharply. "No. And I'm not giving them reason," I said flatly and stormed upstairs with a mission. Not quite the mission it sounded like, but a mission nonetheless.

=/=

Now let's be honest - more than half my homework was ridiculously easy. I actually had to make some deliberate mistakes on my maths paper or it would have been grossly evident that it wasn't Bunny doing the work. Just presenting the working correctly was probably an excessive risk in that respect. Other classes, on the other hand, were more of a challenge. The homework for subjects like history kept me busy for the bulk of the evening and probably wasn't much better than what Bunny usually turned in.

The sun had set and there was a crescent moon visible through the open window of my bedroom when I closed the last book with a sigh and leant back to stretch and examine the ceiling. When I looked down again, I saw a black cat had slipped through the window and onto my bed. I turned the chair to face her and spotted the crescent moon mark on her forehead.

"I've been searching for you, Bunny," she said in a clear voice. "My name is Luna."

I passed my hand across my face and blinked at Luna. "Okay, it's offical - I've been studying too hard."

"You aren't dreaming, Bunny," she assured me. "I must thank you for removing my band aid. With that thing on my forehead I couldn't talk or investigate. There are so many poorly behaved children in this area... it has been horrible."

"So why's a talking cat looking for me?" I asked, half-expecting the usual spiel that Giles used to explain the Slayer business. "What is this? A Miyazaki film?"

"It's not a fairy story," Luna assured me. I relaxed slightly. "You've noticed all the strange events lately? On the news and in the papers... unsolved crimes... You see... you are the chosen warrior."

'The one girl in all the world...' "Are you sure that you have the right girl? I'm no one special." I'm just a guy who used to be a mythic amazon destined to fight the things that go bump in the night.

"No, it's definitely you, Bunny," Luna promised. "I'll prove it to you." She reached out her paw and offered me a brooch. It was a golden circle with four small circles attached at the cardinal points. The heraldry of the central circle was complex, involving a crescent moon and a pentagram. It was very girly and I felt far more feminine than I was comfortable with as I studied it.

"Okay, you gave me a brooch," I said. "What does that prove?"

"You still don't believe what I'm saying?" Luna asked. "Yell out: 'Moon'."

"Yell?" I exclaimed. "Are you nuts? Do you want the whole house awake?" Cautiously, I held out the brooch and muttered: "Moon - ?"

That word was hesitant on my part. The words that followed it out of my mouth were neither hesitant, nor of my own volition: "- Prism Power! Make-Up!"

I felt a rush of power flooding through me. Not the physical capability of the Slayer or any of the other enhancements I'd experiment with over the last three two years. Something clean and bright that did not infuse me so much as flow through me. I'm probably not explaining it well, but somehow I knew that the source of the power was somewhere beyond me and that I was drawing upon it rather than possessing it.

After bracing myself for the doubtless horribly embarassing sight, I gathered my resources and looked in the mirror. It was pretty much the way I'd expected: my blouse had become a snug leotard arrangement festoned with ribbons; there were boots on my feet and gloves on my hands (well it would have been silly the other way around, wouldn't it?); and my skirt was awfully short. About the only comfort was that the boots had a sturdy feel to them and the gloves were thin enough not to prevent my fingers from moving freely.

"What's with the Sailor V outfit?" I asked, adjusting the ludicrously huge domino mask that was perched on my nose.

"It is the uniform of a Sailor Scout, Bunny," Luna declared. "You must find your team and defeat the enemy! Then wel will search for our queen and..."

I held up one gloved hand abruptly, commanding silence from Luna as I listened to a new voice that reached my ears. A voice that wasn't from anywhere in the room but was none the less familiar to me from this universe. It was a cry for help.

"Somebody help me," Molly sobbed. "My mom's..." I glared at the images forming inside my mask: Molly, hanging in the grip of a twisted reflection of her mother.

"Explain later," I told Luna, "My friend needs help - and I don't propose to let her down."

The doors to the jewelry store weren't sealed, but I hesitated before entering. A banzai charge has it's tactical merits, but there is a reason that 'look before you leap' has become an adage. Peering through the glass I could just barely make out Molly, an indistinct taller figure holding onto her by the throat.

"Luna!" I hissed to the cat I carried. "You said I was the chosen warrior - do I have any weapons?"

"Your tiara," she replied promptly. "Shout frisbee and throw it."

If I'd had the time I would have been quite sarcastic about that. I didn't think that I had the time however, so instead I simply plucked the pieve of ornamentation off my forehead and watched as it morphed into a chakram - with gold and glitter, naturally. "Right," I replied and put her down on the ground. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," she said as I pushed open the door. "Sailor Moon."

"I'll give you one chance," I told the ghoulish bitch holding onto my classmate. "Put her down - gently -and maybe you'll get to live."

She turned to see me and there was a flicker of movement from deeper inside the store, that I pretended not to have noticed. "And who are you?" demanded the creature.

"Your executioner, perhaps," I replied quietly. "Do you wish to live?"

She smirked back at me. "I want you to die," she replied candidly. "Slaves -!"

There was the sound of movement around me and I whipped my arm around, announcing "Moon Frisbee!" in a conversational tone as I launched the shimmering circle in my hand at her.

I imagine that her expression was that more commonly found on rabbits when cars come thundering down upon them. Attacked by something quite outside her understanding and quite unable to decide how she should react, the moment of frozen indecision proved to be the wrong choice: that of none at all! The transformed tiara struck her squarely and barely slowed, tearing through her and leaving nothing behind but a heap of sand.

"My god!" I whispered, startled. I don't know what I'd expected, but that simple attack had been more effective than a stake through a vampire's heart.

"I didn't find the the Silver Imperium Crystal here," came a voice from behind me. I whirled, barely remembering to snatch the tiara out of the air as it returned to my hand, and saw a caped man, clad in tuxedo, top hat and finery to match. "However, I enjoyed the show," he added, and with a leap, he was out of the door.

I leapt for the door, chakram at the ready, but in the twinkling of an eye he was gone, disppeared into the night.

"You did it, Bunny!" came an excited voice from next to my knees.

I knelt to pick up Luna, lifting her high enough for us to look each other in the face. "Did I Luna?" I asked. "I killed an agent. But what purpose did she serve and had she achieved it? And who was that man? What's his part in this. Another agent? Her master? Or a third party, perhaps a potential ally?"

Luna shook her head. "We can worry about that later, Bunny. What matters is that you beat her. And that you saved your friend."

I paused along looked back. "Yes," I said as Molly, fallen to the floor during the brief confrontation, began to stir. There were others there as well, some men but mostly women, all in nightclothes. I recognised a face or two from the sales frenzy of earlier and it wasn't hard to guess what had brought them here. "Yes, you're right."

"And so are you," Luna agreed diplomatically. "The enemy has begun its strategy and we still don't know where that leads. But for now," she advised, looking around. "It's time to leave."

"Yes," I agreed, and we departed the scene before anyone had a chance to get a look at me.

There was a curious innocence to the circumstances, I thought, compared to my past experiences. With the threat gone, it appeared that all those involved would recover. Back in Sunnydale, the most I could have hoped for was to avenge the dead and prevent future victims. Here... here victory seemed to cure all. Disconcerting, but not at all unwelcome.

"And then," Molly reported to the rest of the girls, "Right when I was about to be attacked, Sailor V saved me! If I hadn't passed out then, I would have seen her face!"

"Molly," May said dismissively. "Face it - you were dreaming."

"Well something happened," I said, walking up behind Molly and throwing an arm around her shoulders as they began to slump. "Melvin told me there was an article in the paper about last night." And if anyone checked, yes he had. I barely had to prompt him at all.

"Thanks, Bunny," Molly said and then gasped as she looked at me. "Your hair!"

My hair indeed - rather than Bunny's pair of ponytails I had tied off that impressive mass of blonde hair into a single braid that almost reached the floor. Even better, when I transformed into Sailor Moon, my hair went back to the 'traditional royal hairstyle of the Moon Kingdom', which should help to protect my secret identity.

"You like it?" I asked, touching the braid a little self-conciously. "I thought that it was time for a change."

"Wow," muttered May. "It makes you look older. That's so cool!"

And that was the end of the discussion about 'Sailor V'. A change in hairstyle was evidently more important to the girls and I guess that's sort of what it's all about.

"Hi Mom," I called as I walked into the house.

"Hi sweetie," she called and then spotted Luna lurking behind my ankles. "Hi Crescent-Moon Bald-Spotted Kitty... YIKES!" she added as Luna jumped for her face, claws out.

"Mom..." I sighed, snaring Luna out of the air about an inch short of my new mother's upraised hands. "You know that she reacts like this time anytime you call her that." I paused fractionally and then grinned saucily. "There are many much less painful ways to get Daddy to kiss your face better."

"Bunny!" she gasped, laughing despite scandalised expression as I escaped upstairs, with Luna in stealthy pursuit.

"So," I asked, once my bedroom door was closed behind the two of us. "Is there any particular reason you're still here?" Or don't you have anywhere else to go?" She looked a little miffed at that and I reviewed my words. Oops - that hadn't come out quite the way I meant it. "It's not that you aren't welcome, but shouldn't you be out looking for this 'team' you say I've lost?"

"Oh, I am," Luna said. "But you're still a brand new Champion of Justice. There's still tons to teach you before another enemy appears."

Great. Just what I needed: a live-in Watcher. Does she think I've not read the 'If I Ever Become a Magical Girl' list off the internet or something? Although I suppose, I'm not sure if that'd been written back when I was the Vampire Slayer - and I'm further back in time now! Honestly, I'm beginning to feel like Austin Powers, only with better teeth and hair.

I began to unpack my evening's homework. Hell has nothing that I fear in comparison to the distinct possibility that I may be destined to spend the rest of by existence timesharing between schoolwork and world savage. "Right... so these enemies... tell me about them."

"They aren't human."

"Luna, it's spelt b-l-o-n-d-e... not b-l-i-n-d."

Luna looked as abashed as a cat can manage, which isn't very. "My apologies, Bunny. They're evil - things that shouldn't exist in our world. We've got to find your fellow warriors! Then we must find and protect the Princess."

"Or we could find the Princess and then protect her while we look for rest of the team?" I suggested.

"I don't see what difference that would make," Luna said, huffily.

"You're the one who keeps saying warriors first and only then the Princess," I pointed out. "I was just wondering if there was a significance to the order?"

"Humph," Luna sniffed. "In any event, I think I've located the second Sailor Scout."

I had tried spending some of my free time trying to accomplish some physical training, incidentally. I'd ditched the idea of weight training, since that would stunt my growth - I remembered that from my brother trying weight lifting when he was about this age. My parents had let him go ahead despite the 'stunted growth' thing, since he was past six foot by then and anything that stopped him growing like a weed was a good thing in their books.

I'd also had to give up on any type of martial arts training, since Bunny's clumsiness, probably puberty related, was not at all understated in the cartoon. Let's just say I hadn't tried chewing gum while walking - it would probably be hazardous. So my physical training regieme was most limited to some running - for reasons besides being late for school I mean.

Since that left me with a bit or two of spare time, I devoted much of it over the next couple of days watching Amy, Luna's suspected Sailor Scout. I knew the truth of course, or at least thought that I did, but there had been a couple of instances already where matters hadn't gone exactly according to the script for the cartoon, so double-checking the facts wouldn't hurt any, I guessed.

Amy was a pretty girl, I noticed, although perhaps not quite so much with those reading glasses on. That's just my opinion though. Also, she spent a whole lot of time studying and it was paying off dramatically for her - she had apparently aced every subject she studied, earning the top scores across the country.

Rumour (okay, Melvin) had it that her IQ was 300, which wasn't even possible if I understood the scale correctly - not that it mattered. She was bright enough to stand out. Bright enough to get a bit of resentment. Not that takes much in a junior high school - why do teenagers have to have such sensitive prides?

"You know that new cram school, Crystal Academy?" Melvin asked our little lunch group on the second day I'd been stalking Amy.

"You mean the snobby one?" May asked.

"Yeah," Melvin agreed. "Girl Genius Amy goes there!" he announced.

I considered that fact. It matched my recollections - plus the word 'Crystal' would have sounded alarms anyway. "That's the one near the arcade, isn't it?"

"That's the one," Melvin confirmed.

"Daddy said it's really expensive," May interjected. I supposed that that might have explained a little about how Jadeite, presuming that it was him, was funding his operations.

"Well Amy's mom is a doctor, you know," Melvin told us, safe in the knowledge that we probably hadn't know that fact.

"She's smart and rich..." Molly mourned, "It's not fair..."

I made an inquisitive noise and she looked at me in surprise. "Bunny?"

"Your mom's well off," I observed mildly. "And you get pretty good grades too. Should I resent you for that? I'd just like to be clear."

Molly blushed.

"But she's kind of snobby," May objected. "All she does is study... she doesn't hang out at all!"

I shrugged my shoulders but said nothing. There could be a great many reasons besides snobbiness for that behavior, of course, but erasing petty prejudice from the world would take greater power than any I've ever wielded. In any event, it was time to go back to class.

I got another set of grades to take home that afternoon and I hoped that the slight improvement would keep Mom pleased and off my back about 'Bunny's' changed personality.

Amy, I had noticed, walked at least part of the way home by the same route that I did. That afternoon I was trailing along unobtrusively behind her when her routine was disrupted by a jet black furball jumping onto the top of her head, startling both of us.

A _familiar_ jet black furball, at that.

"You scared me, kitty," Amy chided Luna gently as the cat perched herself in the crook of the girl's elbow. "My parents'll never let me keep you," she added reluctantly, stroking Luna's whiskers and then rubbing her cheek against the black fur of Luna's side. "You're so soft," she giggled.

Well so much for the snobby theory, I concluded. She must just not be very outgoing - I could relate to that in spades, and it would match my expectations.

Luna spotted me and bounded out of Amy's hands. She would have landed on my head if I hadn't reflexively stepped back and caught her against my chest. (And as a quick aside, weird as it seemed, despite the age difference, Bunny was just as well 'developed' as Buffy. The wonders of an anime world, I guess.)

"Hi Luna,," I greeted her. "Made a new friend?"

"Oh," Amy said, naturally concluding that Luna could neither understand or reply to me and that thus the remark was directed at her. "That's your kitty? What an angel!" Then she went red in the cheeks as she realised that she was gushing.

I grinned and scratched at Luna's ears. "I suppose that that depends on your view of angels; the ancient Egyptians might have agreed with you. I'm Bunny - and you've met Luna, of course."

"I'm Amy," she replied, a little uncertainly. "I didn't recognise you with your hair like that."

"Oh? People keep saying that I look different," I said. "I don't see much of a difference myself."

Luna chose that moment to jump away from me and run for an arcade a little further up the street. I'd not given the place a second glance until now, but this time I saw that the word 'Crown' was written above the glass doors. Ah, perfect. Pre-Me Bunny's favorite hangout - the place that would be harder than anywhere but my home for me to hide my presence. And Luna was going inside. How perfectly horrible.

"Luna!" I groaned. "That darn cat - always tempting me away from my homework." I turned to Amy. "I suppose I'd better go look for her... would you like to come along? She might condescend to play with you if she's feeling generous..."

Inside the arcade, I saw no sign of Luna, but I was recognised by one of the attendants who was able to tell me that Luna had been hanging around for a week or so - since a few days before I met her in other words. However, he hadn't seen her come in... and since I'd probably be best off waiting here for her to return, would I like to have a go on the Sailor V Fighter game.

Did I mention that I'm not a big fan of video games?

"Sure," I said cheerfully. "How about you, Amy? Have you ever played this game?"

Amy shook her head and said, "I've never played a video game before."

I feigned shock. "What? Never?" When she flushed a little and studied the floor I chuckled and tapped her under the chin, to make her look up and meet my eyes. "Well why don't you have a go first, then. If you don't try, how can you tell if you like it or not?"

Well, I'm not sure exactly how much fun the poor machine was having, but after one round to warm up, Amy was trouncing all over it. By the time she ran out of lives there was quite a crowd gathered too oooh and aah over each level cleared and they cheered as her name was installed in bright lights right at the top of the high scores board on the machine. I was quite impressed - she'd come very very close to getting double the previous high score.

"Not bad," I said, with a wink to mark the obvious understatement. "You're really good."

"Thank you," she said, but a rattle from the machine almost drowned out her words and something clunked out of the opening in the side of the machine. "Hey," Amy said in surprise. "I guess I won a prize."

"With a high score like that?" I replied drily. "I'd say you earned a prize." The prize - a pen - was a match for the game - pink and glittery, with an ornate golden setting on the cap.

"It's your turn, Bunny," Amy told me. "I'm sure that you can win one as well."

A couple of the staff chuckled at that - I gather that for all of her fondness for them, Bunny wasn't all that good at computer games.

Still, I'd been watching how Amy managed... And it wasn't like I had any great excuse to get out of it. I dropped the requisite coin into the machine, took the controls...

...and took a certain delight in hearing the gasps of those who had laughed, when I cleaned out the first level almost as efficiently as Amy had.

Not that that was a major struggle, I'd just seen Amy do so after all, so it was just a matter of matching her actions as closely as possible. It got harder of course and I didn't manage to get even half as far as Amy.

I did, however, score enough to take the bottom slot on the high scorers list.

"Well done, Bunny!" Amy cheered me.

"Wow Bunny," agreed the attendance from before. "When did you get so good at this?"

I avoided replying to that, by the simple expedient of catching the prize that came shooting out of the machine. "I got one too," I told Amy, hiding my shame at touching the pen (which had a faceted crystal where Amy's had an ornate gold loop) under a facade of pride.


	3. Bricks of the House Built of Cards

**A/N**: A trick that sometimes work to break writer's block: inventing 3 facts about characters in the story. I did this on TFF while I was writing _The Night the House of Cards was Built_, with characters picked by pre-readers.

* * *

**Anko**

1. Anko thought she could live with being someone's property. A week after Naruto won her, she wasn't sure she could live without being his property.

2. Anko was already in the Bingo Book. It wasn't until she started dressing more modestly that it was recommended that only kunoichi be allowed to attack her.

3. The last time that Orochimaru saw Anko he didn't recognise her.

**Hinata**

1. When her father gave her up on a drunken bet, Hinata hit rock bottom.

2. Then she grew up conforming to the most non-conformist household in Konoha.

3. The Hyuga Clan tried to place the Caged Bird Seal on Hinata when she married. Tried.

**Hanabi**

1. Hanabi grew up with something to prove to her father. She wasn't thinking of Hiashi.

2. When she graduated from the Konoha Ninja Academy at the age of eight, Hanabi was hailed as a prodigy. She missed her goal by a year.

3. She was never more offended than by Akatsuki when they tried to use her as bait in a trap for Naruto.

**Kyuubi**

1. No one knows why Kyuubi attacked Konoha.

2. No one knows why Naruto's so lucky at poker.

3. Karma's a bitch like that.

**Ayame**

1. Ayame was happy that Naruto had found a family.

2. She wasn't happy about the birthday gift they gave her. Except very privately where her father wouldn't see her wearing it.

3. Ayame is lethally competent in combat when wielding a ladle, as many an Akimichi would later discover.

**Naruto**

1. Naruto wanted to be Hokage so that everyone acknowledged him. After everyone acknowledged him, he wanted to be Hokage so that everyone would respect him.

2. Wealth can be a powerful weapon and Naruto received an excellent education in its uses.

3. For his eighth birthday, Anko taught him to make fireworks. On his ninth birthday, most of Konoha mistook his firework display for the second coming of the Kyuubi.

**Kurenai**

1. Kurenai was not the world's most fastiduous housekeeper. Using genjutsu to disguise this didn't work when she was surrounded by Hyuga.

2. She forgave Anko for losing her in a bet after the first year. She stopped holding it over Anko's head after the fifth year.

3. Kurenai would never be in the Bingo Book. Many of her students would feature prominently.

**Shizune**

1. Shizune lost any interest in gambling after seeing her teacher lose so often.

2. She's also the only person to ever break even with Naruto in a game of poker and after news of this came out, was banned from every casino in the Elemental Countries.

3. Hanabi has 'Shizune-neechan' wrapped around her little finger and everyone knows it.

**Mikoto**

1. Mikoto always wanted a daughter. She regards Hanabi as an even greater benefit of having been won by Naruto than avoiding the Uchiha massacre.

2. Despite Sasuke's best efforts Mikoto still has a carefully hidden collection of mementos of Itachi.

3. Popular rumour frequently links Mikoto romantically to Hiashi Hyuga. The two of them collaborate to present this image as it diverts attention from other, more accurate, rumours.

**Tenten**

1. Under Naruto's coaching, Tenten took to pranks like a duck to water.

2. Tenten excels at the feminine skills taught to kunoichi. Escorting Naruto to high scoiety functions has only polished this, preparing her for a career dealing in high level political missions.

3. Out of all of Naruto's family, Tenten is the most skilled with a hairbrush, having been taught a few tricks by none other than the esteemed Hoshi Masote.

**Hiashi**

1. Hiashi took a secret joy in the restructuring of the Hyuga Clan that followed the 'Uzumaki Usurpation', viewing a whimsical six year old as far more reasonable than the wisdom of the Hyuga Elders.

2. This lasted until the five year old Hanabi innocently compared his 'equipment' unfavourably to Naruto's.

3. The fact that Naruto took all the blame for turning Hiashi's hair white overnight was Hiashi's little revenge and well worth the effort of secretly obtaining a lifetime supply of bleach.

**Fugaku**

1. It was only the fact that Mikoto, custodian of the Uchiha Family Secret, stood up to him that Fugaku allowed Itachi to join ANBU rather than Military Police.

2. Well aware of how often Naruto wound up being hunted down by his military police, Fugaku was confident that Mikoto would get sick of the boy soon enough.

3. Fugaku's death was particularly improvident for the rest of the Uchiha clan: had their ambush a little further along the street been reached before Itachi had arrived, the rest of them might have survived.

**Chouza**

1. The loss of the Akimichi family's wealth led to a two generation loss of power and respect for the Akimichi family. After his own son, the tradition of starting names with 'Cho' fell out of use.

2. From the Day After the House of Cards Was Built, Chouza never again ate ramen.

3. Chouza would eventually die of a stroke when he heard the nominations for the position of Rokudaime Hokage.

**Tsunade**

1. The revelation that a child had won such a fortune in the regular poker game at Konoha drove Tsunade into a frenzy of gambling to earn a stake and enter it herself... and thus vastly deeper into debt.

2. Tsunade's fortunes ultimately turned around when she became a pirate queen in order fend off her debtors and actually earned enough to repay some of them.

3. Long after her death, fools still searched for the legendary hoard of the Pirate Queen Tsunade. Everyone with half a brain realised it was in the Uzumaki coffers within an hour of her sitting across a green baize table with Naruto.

**Teuchi**

1. Privately Teuchi rather liked the costumes that Naruto's 'sisters' wore. However, he refrained from revealing this since it might encourage Ayame to don one.

2. Although he never became rich, Teuchi's new stall became a popular gathering place and his influence was said to rival that of Hoshi Masote. Much of Naruto's eventual high reputation rested on Teuchi's respect for him.

3. Contrary to popular opinion, Teuchi wasn't considered as Godaime Hokage in the hopes that he'd act as a restraint upon Naruto. It _is_ why he was later nominated as a civilian advisor to the Rokudaime Hokage.

**Kakashi**

1. Kakashi actively and unsuccessfully campaigned to be Uchiha Sasuke's jounin-sensei.

2. Faced with Gai challenging him to detail the most embarrassing moment of his life, Kakashi lied and claimed it was the time that a seven-year old Naruto asked for an explanation of the Icha Icha books he had received from Inoichi.

3. Kakashi would eventually die on the receiving end of his own original assassination technique. His last words were a scathing critique of the execution.

**Gai**

1. Gai honestly didn't think much about Naruto's new family until Anko approached him to develop a new taijutsu style for them.

2. Believing that Naruto only had Hiashi as a male role-model, Gai did his best to be there for him. The rest of the Uzumaki family did their best to keep him as far away from their impressionable master as possible.

3. Frankly it was embarrassing for everyone but the happy couple how much Gai was weeping when his surrogate son married into the Uzumaki family.

**Sakura**

1. Sakura gave Ino her ribbon back when she decided to compete with her for Naruto. It took a solid month for Ino to persuade Naruto to let Sakura visit the Uzumaki Mansion again.

2. Being brighter than at least half the people he knew, Sakura never played poker with Uzumaki Naruto.

3. Sakura dropped out of the Ninja Academy when she was eleven and eventually had a fulfilling career taking over the Icha Icha line of books from Jiraiya. Surprising many, incidences of yaoi only increased 700% - to parity with the yuri scenes - after she took over.

**Ino**

1. Ino was her daddy's little princess. That part of her personality would be thoroughly stamped out by Mikoto, Anko and Kurenai during the second six years of her life.

2. Ino was the first of Naruto's 'younger sisters' to learn of the Kyuubi inside him. She is possibly the only person to ever survive smacking the Kitsune no Kyuubi's nose.

3. When her jounin-sensei asked what her ambition was, Ino declared that one day she would surpass the tsukiyomi technique of the Sharingan.

**Yugito**

1. At the time Yugito didn't understand why the Raikage insisted on teaching her to play poker when she was ten.

2. It didn't take her long to learn the rules and promptly lose all her chips so that she could go back to real training.

3. The disappointed look on the Raikage's face was reward enough for her.

**Itachi**

1. Itachi is a dutiful son, he writes to his mother every week to let her know how he's doing.

2. Hidden in his Akatsuki robes, Itachi has a box of pocky marked as his special secret stash. He eats one stick of pocky from it a year, on the anniversary of the Uchiha Massacre. Several openings in the Akatsuki ranks opened up after three members of the organisation decided to hassle the noob by stealing some. He didn't so much kill them as cut them open to retreive the pocky.

3. Itachi warned the Akatsuki that Uzumaki Naruto was a ruthless master manipulator merely pretending to be a clueless little boy. The weight of his evidence convinced them.

**Asuma**

1. Asuma tried getting back together with Kurenai once. Challenging Naruto to a game of poker for possession of her probably wasn't the best approach though.

2. Winning his nephew's affections was entirely simpler however. Konohamaru treasured the triangular hat of newspaper for all the months until it wore out.

3. He'd almost forgotten about the markers he'd lost to Naruto until the brat decided he needed a wind-affinity ninjutsu tutor.

**Ino's mother**

1. Ino's mother didn't like the idea of Ino being near the Kyuubi but was at least glad there would be adult supervision... until she found out who the adults were.

2. She went along with Ino once to provide supervision and had to be medicated after an embarrassing incident with the Uchiha Secret.

3. Ultimately, Ino's mother and Naruto bonded over a mutual interest in bullying Inoichi.

**Hana**

1. Hana thought that her jounin-sensei's costume was fairly funny until she got stuck wearing one.

2. If Hana ever finds out the cause and effect of Naruto's dog having gingerish fur and being called Kouzi-iro involves hair dye then there will be hell to pay.

3. As one of Konoha's better frontline medic-nin, Hana earns the nickname 'Chooser of the Slain'.

**Uchiha Madara**

1. The reason that Madara killed his best friend and discovered the Mangekyou Sharingan was simple. His friend had stumbled upon The Uchiha Secret and security measures were required.

2. Madara almost killed Itachi when he heard about the Massacre. Fortunately for Itachi, word of Fugaku's losses preceded him to his first meeting with Madara.

3. A closet bibliophile, Madara has read more books than he has killed people by several orders of magnitude, recording their contents with the Sharingan. Actually he's read more books than he's talked to people by almost as large a margin, which explains a lot about him.

**Nara Yoshino**

1. Despite her signature weapon, Yoshino has a reputation for being rather strait-laced.

2. She was actually quite upset with Chouza when it was discovered that he had encouraged a minor to gamble with his lifesavings.

3. To the end of her days she would deny exhorting Shikamaru to get himself a harem like that nice Uzumaki boy.

**Inoichi**

1. Given how much hassle his wife gave him over his Icha Icha collection, Inoichi was at a loss to understand why she was mad at him for getting rid of them.

2. It's not as if they would corrupt a demon any further, would they?

3. The discovery that Naruto was going to punish Ino for skipping out on her chores had Inoichi attempting to storm the mansion on an impromptu and ill-fated rescue mission. After foiling the intruder, Ino was allowed to have cookies with the others anyway, so it was a happy ending.

**Kuromaru**

1. Kuromaru offered to give the other losers of That Poker Game sanctuary in his kennels if they'd reciprocate and doesn't understand why none of them took him up on it.

2. Tsume sometimes wonders, when dealing with the precedence within the Inuzuka pack, if Kuromaru's 'ineffectual patriarch act' is a sign that he's just a little too human.

3. Kuromaru takes pride that Kouzi-iro is inarguably the strongest of his pups. No one lets him get away with claiming that this was his master plan all along though.

**Gaara**

1. The nights can get very boring, even in a ninja village so Gaara's taken up practising his stealth skills (every hunter knows not to scare their prey out of reach). He's found that the only real activities take place in private bedrooms, a real challenge to his infiltration skills.

2. He's not quite sure what he's watching when his sand-eye technique shows him these activities but mother assures him that he will treasure the memories some day.

3. Gaara holds Naruto in the same regard as he would an elder brother. Of course, his example for this is Sasuke's relationship with Itachi, so this is perhaps regrettable.

**Temari**

1. At first Temari presumed that Naruto's family were some sort of cheerleaders for the Exams, not participants. Then she realised that any kunoichi that can get away with wearing something like that must be hard as nails.

2. Temari admits that Naruto's girls have it pretty good, but she'd never surrender her independence for that. Wearing the costume while she taught him the fan techniques she'd wagered wasn't as embarrassing as she'd expected though.

3. Gaara's offer to kill her last if she wore a costume to show she belonged to him was just creepy though.

**Kankuro**

1. Kankuro's first impression of Naruto was that the rumours had to be just that, rumours. There was no way that this twerp could have a small army of women at his command.

2. His second impression was that not only was it true, but that it was a good job he'd let his puppet doing the talking when he publicly disparaged Naruto. Those girls were tough.

3. Claiming that he had bet and lost his place in the finals of the Chuunin Exam to Naruto was the perfect excuse to cop out - everyone but Naruto believed him. He still wasn't promoted by Suna as gambling mission objectives is frowned upon.

**Orochimaru**

1. If Orochimaru could have found Tsunade during her Pirate Queen phase, he'd have had her across a green baize table with a deck of cards faster than the Yondaime Hokage could kill a cohort of Iwa-nin. There was always room in his organisation for a gifted physician.

2. Since capturing Naruto's family would have provided him with a Hyuuga, an Uchiha, his longlost apprentice and a bijuu, Orochimaru spent over six months trying to pin down their routine so he could carry out a tactical extraction. Naruto's impulsive schedule defeated him.

3. Ever since the unsuccessful invasion of Konoha, Sound-nin have standing orders to avoid contact with french maids at all costs. It's less embarrassing than having your butt kicked publicly by one.

**Haku**

1. Zabusa's coup might not have succeeded if the Water Country's daimyo hadn't developed a bad case of death, courtesy of a kunoichi wearing a maid costume. Since that's habitual only in select circles of Konoha there was a degree of political cooling towards Fire Country.

2. After the coup, the new daimyo ordered the new Mizukage to provide him with a maid-trained kunoichi bodyguard, damn the expense.

3. Only one kunoichi in Water Country would ever dress like a maid. And she's a he.

**Gato**

1. His proposed take over of Wave Country would have gone smoother if someone in Konoha hadn't owned some of the land there and hired Konoha shinobi to find out what was going on with the trade routes.

2. Losing half his ships to that damn Pirate Queen Tsunade after he'd publicly offered a bounty for her, suitably broken for entertainment purposes was the last straw for his credibility.

3. Gato ended up running a second-rate ramen stand when a soft-hearted kid from Konoha loaned him a few thousand ryou as start-up funds. It wasn't until he'd put down roots that he realised that after his own living expenses, the repayments were taking up every penny of his profit.

**Sarutobi**

1. Sarutobi's an old man who has few entertainments in life. Making Naruto process the paperwork for cleaning up his own pranks is one of them.

2. There are some daydreams that a Hokage should be allowed to enjoy. The one where Hokages are issued attractive girls in skimpy costumes as personal servants always gets interrupted for some reason.

3. After Itachi's defection, the Hokage decided not to issue any more permits to enter the academy early. He did advance one girl several classes a few years later though.

**Sasuke**

1. Sasuke was fortunate that after the Uchiha Massacre, the Hyuuga Elders were willing to provide him with training in repayment for his hospitality in the now empty Uchiha district.

2. Popular opinion among Konoha fangirls is that Uchiha Sasuke and Hyuga Neji are friends so close as to be brothers. Actually, there are only limited places for them to portray their broody coolness and the Elders insist that they share amicably.

3. Sasuke isn't dumb enough to play poker against Naruto. Bribing him to take fangirls off his hands is another matter.

**Zabusa**

1. It's good to be the Mizukage.

2. It's even better to have a fanatically loyal subordinate as the bodyguard to your political superior.

3. Officially, Hidden Mist remains extremely hostile towards bloodline limits. Unofficially, the Mizukage maintains a Hidden Village of Bloodline Clans inside the Hidden Mist village. Look underneath that underneath, he heard a Leaf-nin say once.

**Danzo**

1. ROOT have had standing orders for more than five years to investigate any woman who stands still in Sarutobi's presence. Danzo hasn't found the Hokage Harem that Nidaime promised Sarutobi when he and Danzo were boys yet, but he's not ready to give up yet.

2. There's a scurrilous rumor that Danzo was crippled after betting an arm and a leg in a poker game with Uzumaki Naruto. This is, of course, untrue - neither of his legs is artificial.

3. Danzo dies alone. Forgotten. Irrelevant. No one even looks for him.


	4. Stray Footsteps of the Boy-Who-Lived

**A/N**: Unrelated to the earlier chapters, here are scenes never reached by the plot of _Footsteps of the Boy Who Lived_ - a Harry Potter SI obviously.

* * *

Michael was still wondering about that when they were sitting in Hagrid's hut after the game, being made a cup of strong team. Ron was rather despondent over Gryffindor's defeat, but Hagrid was trying to be optimistic about the team's prospects against Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

"Snape?" Hagrid said, when he voiced his thoughts. "Can't see why he'd be limpin'. Poppy Pomfrey'd fix him up a treat if he got hurt."

"There is that," Michael said thoughtfully.

"But why wouldn't he go to her then?" Hermione asked. "What sort of injury wouldn't he want anyone to know about?"

"Something embarrassing?" Michael speculated. "But what could be embarrassing about hurting his leg? It's not like he got bitten on the bum or anything."

There was a small explosion of tea as Hagrid guffawed. He explained himself with an anecdote about an accident Snape had had back when he was a student. Apparently, through either his own carelessness or connivance on the part of Harry Potter's father (Hagrid winked broadly at that point), Snape really had been bitten on the bum once, and quite publically as well.

Hermione looked scandalized at first, but Hagrid was a surprisingly good storyteller and soon she was giggling along with the boys at the embroidered tale. The only thing that detracted from Michael's amusement was that the story almost certainly explained why Snape was so determined to give him a hard time.

"So if it's not something embarrassing," mused Michael after they had stopped laughing, "what other reason could he have? Something shameful? Not just an accident or something?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe something bit him, there's supposed to be all sorts of things in the Forbidden Forest."

"But why would he hide that?" Hermione asked. "And what would Professor Snape be doing in the Forbidden Forest?"

"Could have been collecting potions ingredients," Hagrid offered. "He does that sometimes."

Michael frowned. "Perhaps. But he'd not have had much time to do that lately – we're just at the end of the week – he's had classes until now, and he'd hardly go looking for ingredients in the dark, would he? Is there something in the castle that could hurt him like that?"

"Not unless he got Fluffy mad at him," Hagrid said with a chuckle.

The three students looked at each other. "Fluffy?" Michael asked leadingly.

"M' other dog," Hagrid explained, slapping Fang casually on the back of his neck, with enough force that it would probably have floored any of the three youngsters, although the dog scarcely noticed the impact. "Bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year - I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the -" He trailed off suddenly.

"Never mind," Michael sighed. "Something else that you can't talk about, I suppose."

"Yeah, that's Top Secret, that is," Hagrid agreed. "Don't ask me anymore."

"But what if Snape's trying to steal it?" Ron asked.

Hagrid shook his head. "Rubbish. Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort. Now, listen to me, all three of yeh - yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel an' it's no business of anyone's but them."

Michael raised one eyebrow at Hermione. "So, Quidditch," he said, changing the subject.

.oOo.

One night in mid-December it began to snow and when Michael looked out of his window the following morning he saw several feet of snow on the ground. A few days later the lake froze solid and the few owls delivering mail at breakfast looked rather hard done by when they arrived, many of them requiring attention from Hagrid before they could return to their sources.

Since Michael didn't have anyone to send owls to anyway, he wasn't bothered by this and he spent one weekend skidding around on the lake, wrapped up in several layers of robes as a defense against the cold. He'd convinced a couple of older Ravenclaws to help him transfigure a spare pair of shoes into ice skates and the next weekend he couldn't even get onto the ice, it was so crowded by students with improvised skates. The hold outs, usually from pureblooded families that disapproved of 'muggle games' fumed but there wasn't really anything they could do about it.

Everyone was looking forward to Christmas and to going home for the holidays. While some rooms were heated by huge fires, Hogwarts wasn't all that wind proof and the corridors were icy, adding to their usual hazards. Most of the classrooms were on the chilly side as well and the potions dungeon and greenhouses were positively freezing – although in the former case they could at least warm themselves at their cauldrons.

The last Herbology class before Christmas, Draco Malfoy felt brave enough to have another go at Michael. "I do feel so sorry for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home," he said and looked pointedly at Michael. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle sniggered, obviously pre-advised of the correct response.

"Angling for an invitation, Draco?" Michael asked cheerfully. "Sorry, the Christmas celebrations at my place are only open to family and friends… and we're not exactly friends, are we?"

"Hogwarts isn't exclusive," Draco sneered.

"I'm not staying at Hogwarts," Michael said cheerily. "I thought that you meant you were." He had given serious consideration to staying over at Hogwarts but after a week of frosty weather he had decided he'd rather live in his trusty (and magically heated) tent than hole up in Hogwarts and die of boredom. Besides, he was running out of books to read.

When the class was over Professor Dumbledore was waiting just inside the door that entered the rest of the castle. "Ah, Harry," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "I believe it is over time that we had a little chat, do you not?"

Michael gave him a puzzled look at then shrugged. "Hal," he said as he followed Dumbledore up a staircase he'd not used before.

"Pardon?"

"I prefer Hal, not Harry."

"Ah," Dumbledore said, nodding wisely. "I shall have to remember that then, shan't I, Hal? Can't go around calling people by the wrong names."

At the top of the stairs Dumbledore simply crossed a corridor and waved vaguely at a gargoyle that sprang aside to reveal another narrow staircase. At the head of this one was a stout door and behind it what could only be Dumbledore's office. The professor seated himself in a comfortable looking chair behind the broad desk and Michael did not wait for an invitation before sitting in a chair opposite him.

"Can I offer you a lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked.

Michael gave him a puzzled look but took one of the offered sweets, thanked him and placed it in his mouth, using his tongue to push it into one cheek so that it bulged out squirrel-like. Then he looked at Dumbledore expectantly.

"Now then, Hal," Dumbledore said. "I have received a rather puzzling letter from your relatives. I wrote to them, letting them know where and when you could be collected from King's Cross Station, but it seems that they haven't seen you at all since Hagrid took you to Diagon Alley on your birthday."

Michael shrugged and said nothing.

Dumbledore sighed. "Hal, did you go back to your family that night?"

"No."

"It's not safe for you to be out on your own, Hal. Why didn't you go back?"

"I couldn't find them," Michael said reasonably. "I don't know where they live." This, he felt, had the advantage of being the exact and absolute truth.

There was a long moment of silence as Dumbledore met Michael's eyes, his own gaze serious. "May I ask why you did not ask for help in that case?" he enquired at last.

"Well," Michael said. "I thought about that, but then I figured they didn't seem at all that happy about my being a wizard, so I decided to take a little holiday. And I was having such a wonderful time that I'd quite forgotten about them by the time September rolled around."

"Where did you go, Hal?" Dumbledore asked, his voice sounding intrigued.

"Oh, a few different places," Michael said cheerily. "I rented a room for the first week or so and then I went camping."

"Life on the open road can be very dangerous, Hal," Dumbledore warned. "I understand that you wanted to stretch your wings a little, but you're too young to be on your own like that."

"Doesn't seem to have done me any harm," Michael replied cheerfully.

"That is very fortunate," Dumbledore said. "Now, can I count on you to stay with your family over Christmas?"

Michael shook his head. He'd already given it some thought but spending time with anyone who'd known the real Harry Potter well would be far too risky – they'd almost certainly realise that there had been suspicious changes and that he knew almost nothing about them. "I have other plans," he said cheerfully.

Dumbledore's face lengthened. "I must insist Hal. Either you go to your family for Christmas or you stay here at Hogwarts."

Michael frowned. That was a no brainer – Hogwarts was the only alternative that wouldn't lead to the revelation of his identity. But what business was it of Dumbledore's where he stayed? After a moment, he decided that there was no use arguing. "Hogwarts," he muttered, looking at the floor, and got out of his chair, heading for the door.

"Hal?" Dumbledore said in a surprised voice. "What's the matter?"

Michael looked at him and then cracked the lemon drop between his teeth, swallowing the fragments. "Nothing," he said at last and left the Headmaster's office.

He had only descended a few steps when Dumbledore reached the top of the stairs and called: "Hal, one moment more please." Michael paused and a moment later Dumbledore passed him a light package about a foot square and containing something soft – clothing of some sort, Michael thought.

"A little present for Christmas," Dumbledore said lightly. "I was meaning to have the House Elves deliver it, but since we are speaking now it would seem a shame not to give it to you now."

Michael could not disguise his surprise at the gift but remembered his manners and stammered his thanks before going down the stairs again in a somewhat better mood than he had been in a moment earlier.

.oOo.

When Michael finished his next class he found Professor Snape, Hagrid, Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley glaring at each other in the hallway above the Potions dungeon. Malfoy and Ron would have just had potions class with Snape, Michael remembered, which explained their presence. Hagrid, on the other hand, was encumbered by a very large Christmas tree.

"He was provoked, Professor Snape," Hagrid protested. "Malfoy was insultin' his family."

"Be that as it may," Snape said silkily. "Fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid. Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more. Move along, all of you."

"So it's okay to insult other people's families?" Michael asked innocently from behind Snape. "And they're not allowed to do anything about it?" He looked at Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, all of whom had stopped to look at him before they tried to push past the tree. "Because I've been meaning to ask, Malfoy – do your thieving ways extend to your whole family? 'I'm the toughest wizard in the land,'" he said in a nasal imitation of Malfoy's piping voice, 'and I can steal anybody's toys - and do it in broad daylight, which makes me a pureblood instead of a thief'."

"Ten points from Ravenclaw," Snape snarled as Malfoy went red. Only the fact that Crabbe and Goyle were between him and Michael stopped the blond-haired boy from lunging at him.

"Sauce for the goose," Michael said cheerfully, "Sauce for the gander. It's not so much fun when the boot is on the other foot, is it Professor?"

Snape glared at him. "That's five more points, Potter," he said.

"For or against?" Michael replied with a grin.

"That's a total of twenty points from Ravenclaw," Snape hissed. "Watch your step Potter, you're headed for the same bad end your father met."

"I'm sure I can come up with something new and impressive as bad ends go," Michael said lightly. "Perhaps you can experiment with them first, Professor – boldly going where no Wizard has gone before."

Snape snarled and stalked away, his dark cloak swirling around him. With the confrontation over and Michael looking at them now, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle scurried away past the tree, leaving Michael to look at Hagrid and Ron. "Hi guys," he said cheerfully. "How are you doing?"

"Merlin, Hall," Ron gasped. "How do you keep baiting Snape like that? He took twenty points off you."

"Nah – he took twenty points off Ravenclaw," Michael said cheerfully. "So what? Points aren't important."

"I don't know if your Housemates will see it like that, Hal," said Hagrid. "Still, it's too late now. Tell yeh what, come with me an' see the Great Hall, looks a treat."

He was right about that – when he managed to set up the tree in the hall, there were a total of twelve Christmas trees, sparkling with tiny icicles or candles provided by Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. As well as that, the walls were hung with holly and mistletoe until the huge room with its enchanted roof looked more like a forest grove than a castle hall. The students perched themselves at the bottom of the Ravenclaw table to watch Professor Flitwick trailing golden bubbles across the last tree's branches. Sometimes, Michael observed, it was a positive education simply to watch the Professors at work.

"How many days you got left until yer holidays?" Hagrid asked, sitting down for a breather now that his part of the work was done.

.oOo.

Michael had no intention at all of staying at Hogwarts however. The morning that most of the other students packed away their trunks, he shoved everything he had back into his rucksack and draped the invisibility cloak over himself. Then, with a grin on his face he followed a little group of students as far as the main doors where they were climbing aboard a convoy of carriages (horseless carriages it would appear) that would take them to the station.

It would be far too crowded aboard the carriages for Michael to ride undetected, but that was fine with him. It hadn't taken him long to realise that his absence would be discovered long before the Hogwarts Express reached King's Cross and it would be quite easy to have someone find him at the station since he would have to leave through the portal to Platform Nine.

There was, however, an alternative. Students in the Third Year were allowed to visit the village of Hogsmeade, a Wizarding community less than an hour's walk away from Hogwarts. Although he'd never been there, the route was easy enough to work out so before the first carriages had even left Hogwarts for the station, Michael was scurrying though the snow towards the little village.

Rather than pausing to look around (interesting as the town appeared, time was somewhat urgent) he put the cloak away and made his way quickly into a Pub named the Hogshead. It was a thoroughly disreputable little place, which meant of course that no one looked twice as he walked in with his hood up, dropped a sickle into one jar on the mantelpiece and took a handful of glittering powder from the other. The fire roared high and green as he threw the powder into it and his gulp was as much one of anticipation as it was of fear. Then he muttered "Diagon Alley," and stepped into the flames with confidence that he did not really feel.

The passage through the floo made him want to throw up. It seemed as if he was spinning wildly from one fireplace to the next across the country and he rather wondered if anyone would use Floo travel at all if it wasn't so much faster than Muggle means. Nothing lasts forever however and eventually he was spat out of another fireplace and landed quite hard on the stone paving of Diagon Alley.

London was evidently as lousy in the weather department as Michael had expected, so rather than snow, the paving was covered with puddles as a result of the thin but persistent drizzle that rained down on Michael as he clambered to his feet, checked that his rucksack was secure and ducked around a corner from the public floo. Fortunately, the lousy weather left the streets fairly clear and he found his way quickly to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

In the cover of the yard, away from prying eyes, the boy lowered his hood and pulled a rather battered pointy hat out of his bag, one that would likely cover him better against the rain. Michael had been reading up on concealing charms ever since his conversation with Dumbledore. He couldn't manage a Fidelius charm, which seemed to be the most powerful such spell, but there were easier spells and he had layered several of them on his watch before leaving Hogwarts. It had stopped working previously but now he found a new use for it, anchoring charms that should keep anyone from magically tracking him as long as he wore it. The tent in his bag had been prepared in just the same way, and as long as he was in it, it would take quite a bit to locate him.

With the hat concealing most of him from view, Michael choked down a string of liquorice he'd managed to obtain from one of the Weasley twins. (He wasn't sure of which one, since he couldn't tell them apart. "This is too confusing," he'd told them, "I'll just call you both Bruce.") He hated liquorice, but this time the damn stuff had the pleasant side effect of giving him an aged face, a long white beard and hair to match. He looked like a Mini-Dumbledore.

Stepping into the Leaky Cauldron, Michael took off his hat, and flicked it back towards the door to rid it of any excess moisture. Then, with a polite nod to Tom behind the bar, he punched the crown of the hat, causing it to reshape the pointed top into something more like a broad-brimmed cowboy hat and flipped his cloak off, rolling it into a bundle that tied neatly onto the top of his rucksack.

Then, protected from the rain by the heavy overcoat he'd been wearing under his cloak he trudged out of the Wizarding World and into the cold streets of London, heading for the nearest subway station. It was less than an hour since he'd left Hogwarts, and with a bit of luck, another hour would having him headed out of London in some random direction. He was free and clear – if his charms were working as he had hoped then nothing would stop him now.

.oOo.

Christmas passed in a quiet blur for Michael. He was sure that there would be a terrible fuss about finding him so he'd been sure to make sure he was well out of the way of everyone for the duration. This wasn't particularly difficult for him – invisibility cloaks being such handy little items, he'd simply covered himself up with his invisibility cloak anytime it would be inconvenient to be spotted, which it would have been for the first night. The first train he'd caught out of London had taken him to Portsmouth, and on a whim he'd snuck aboard one of the cross-channel ferries. He felt a bit bad about welching on the fare, but he was already a fugitive from the almighty Dumbledore so he didn't feel like worrying his conscience too much.

Once he was in France, a bus took him out along the coast and he set up in what was probably a campsite during summer months. Right now it was almost deserted, most people having better things to do for Christmas. Once his tent was up and done, all he had to do was get some food – the shops were accustomed to English visitors even though it was out of season to them, so no one looked twice at an ordinary looking young boy making purchases every few days.

There were plenty of books in his tent – the secondhand bookshop he'd found in Portsmouth had had a bumper day as he waited for the ferry – and he'd brought some notebooks if the urge to write hit him. They were also useful for his homework, which he managed to get done in the first few days and after a while he started rewriting a couple of the text books from Hogwarts. The books were all traditional hardcovered tomes, not at all like the colourful textbooks that Michael remembered from his own High School. His own efforts were probably pretty amateurish, he admitted privately, but if nothing else the work was good revision.

.oOo.

Michael was just following a circuitous path back to the Ravenclaw Common Room when he heard a gasp from behind him and saw that Professor Flitwick had just emerged from behind the Gargoyle that shielded the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office.

"Mr. Potter!" exclaimed the little man. "Where did you come from?"

Michael blinked and then grinned. "Well, mother and father were _very_ fond of each other, and nine months later…" he said, tailing the statement off with a wink.

From the look on the face of his Head of House, he wasn't going to be making a living as a comedian any time soon.

"Filius? Is there something wrong?" asked a voice from behind Professor Flitwick and Dumbledore came into view, halting as he saw Michael. "Hal?"

Michael replied with a little bow. "Such lot of fuss about little old me," he said lightly.

"Hal," Dumbledore said, a sad expression on his face. "I'm very disappointed in you."

"I'm shocked to hear that, headmaster," Michael replied, his face a picture of innocence. "I really can't think of any possible reason."

Professor Flitwick frowned. "You told me, Hal, that you would be staying at Hogwarts over the Christmas holidays."

"Why, Professor," Michael exclaimed. "That's a terrible lie. I'm surprised I can't see your nose growing. I said no such thing to you."

"You did, however say so to me," Dumbledore pronounced.

"I recall implying that, yes."

"But you didn't do that, did you?"

Michael scratched his head thoughtfully. "No… no, I don't think I did."

Dumbledore sighed. "I told you then Hal that it was not safe for you to be out on your own. And you agreed that you would not -"

"Liar."

"What?" Dumbledore asked after a moment.

"Liar. One who tells lies," Michael expanded. "Stop trying to put words into my mouth."

"You agreed to stay at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. "And you have caused no small amount of concern by failing to do so."

"Now that would be the lie on my part," explained Michael without a trace of remorse. "I could already see that arguing with you wasn't going to change anything. And you hadn't presented any arguments that changed my mind. So why waste time arguing?"

"Mr. Potter," Flitwick said, drawing himself up to his full height. "If you cannot be trusted to keep your promises to members of staff -"

"What promise?"

"You will be in detention," the Head of Ravenclaw pronounced firmly. "For the rest of the year."

"Then I will contest that punishment," Michael shot back. "Who, precisely, do I go to to have you overruled? No, never mind, I'll find out on my own."

"I very much doubt that the Board of Governors will -"

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I would prefer to avoid taking this to the Governors, Filius," he said somewhat regretfully. "However, Hal, if you cannot be trusted to obey instructions from the staff then I will have to restrict your movements."

"It is no business of yours Headmaster, what I do when I am not at Hogwarts," Michael said, rising to his feet. "And it is no business of yours where I am during holidays."

"I am responsible for your safety, Hal."

Michael shrugged. "Are you going to chase down all the other students to ask what they did on their holidays?"

"Whether you like it or not, Hal, you are not just another student. Voldemort still has many adherents… followers -"

"I know the word," Michael snapped.

"They would be only too delighted to get their hands on you," Dumbledore warned.

Michael nodded. "I'm sure they would. But if I let fear of them rule my life, trap me inside a little box, then they've already won. It's a short step from there for them to be 'They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' and the rest of Voldemort's bull- uh, garbage."

"I know the word," Dumbledore said wryly. "Hal, I will not let you wander around England where you are vulnerable."

Michael shrugged. "Oh well if that's the problem then why didn't you say so? I wasn't in England."

"You left the country!?"

Michael paused. "If you make this a prison, gaoler," he said flatly. "Then as the prisoner, I assure you that I'll make every effort to leave. And I won't return here again."

He left the office, returning to Ravenclaw Tower, and neither of the two professors stopped him.

.oOo.

His eyes went wide and his face went absolutely white. Michael wanted to whirl around more than anything else in the world, but he found that he could not bring himself to move as much as a muscle. His heartbeat was loud in his ears as he saw reflected in the mirror a whole crowd of people standing behind him. Nor were they just any people…

A large, plump woman with brown curly hair that didn't reach her shoulders was in front, her face freckled and wearing a warm smile although there were tears gleaming in her eyes. A tall, balding man with greying black hair and intelligent eyes stood beside her and his arm was around her shoulders to offer comfort.

Tears were in Michael's eyes as he reached back towards where they should be but his questing fingers found nothing. They were merely an illusion, existing only in the mirror and Michael fell to his knees, resting his forehead against the mirror and gripping the frame tightly as he saw two children, a girl with dark brown hair and a young boy with close-cropped blond curls standing with them.

Behind the little group were others. A short, stooped old man with salt-and-pepper hair stood with an erect white-haired matriarch and an elderly woman with smiling eyes sat beside them. More men and women were with them, for the most part as couples and around each were their children - ranging from infants barely old enough to walk to adults themselves.

Tears were pouring down Michael's face and he tore off his glasses and buried his face in his hands. "Mum…" he sobbed. "Dad… everyone… I miss you… I miss you all so much…"

In front of him, the image of a tall, slim boy in his mid-teens, with a high forehead and an unruly mop of golden blond curls, hid his own blue eyes behind freckled hands in reflection of Michael's own anguish.

.oOo.

Michael stared at the sight of Neville Longbottom lying on the floor of the corridor outside the library. "Are you okay?" he asked. The other boy's legs appeared to have been stuck together somehow.

"I'm alright," Neville said trying to climb to his feet.

It was surprisingly difficult for him and Michael groaned. "What happened – do you need to go to the hospital wing or something?"

"No – it was Malfoy," Neville admitted. "He said he'd been looking for someone to practise the Leg-Locker Curse on."

"Riiight," Michael sighed. "Maybe you should return the favour sometime," he suggested. "Do you remember the counter-curse?"

Neville hesitated and then shook his head. "No," he confessed.

"Right then," Michael said briskly. "Get your wand out and I'll walk you through it. This way you don't have to worry about it happening again."

.oOo.

"Hagrid," Michael pointed out firmly. "Even if Malfoy doesn't tattle on you, someone's bound to notice Norbert when he's bigger than your whole cabin. You can't keep him hidden forever and even Dumbledore can't keep you here if they want to throw you in jail."

Hagrid bit his lip. "I-I know I can't keep him forever, but I can't jus' dump him, I can't."

Michael sighed, "I know. But he can't stay here either. Where do dragons live anyway?"

"Romania," Ron suggested. "My brother Charlie, remember?" His face lit up. "That's it! Charlie loves Dragons. He can take care of Norbert and put him back in the wild when he's old enough!"

.oOo.

"But Hal - what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

Michael thought about that for a moment. "Well, if you could tell Dumbledore to hurry…?"

The girl looked like she was about to cry and then she moved closer to Michael and hugged him fiercely. Michael blinked and for a moment, frozen with surprise, he did nothing. Then, very slowly, he relaxed enough to wrap his own arms around her shoulders. "Is it, er, Hug-A-Hal Day' or something?" he asked lightly. "I'm not complaining, mind, but it's nice to know that sort of thing."

Hermione sniffed and let go of him. "Hal - you're a great wizard, you know."

Michael smiled and cupping her face gently with one hand, with great daring, he kissed her lightly on her other cheek. Her face went red at the affectionate contact. "You and Ron are the best friends I've ever had," he said simply and lifted the small bottle to his lips.

The liquid inside was incredibly cold and he could almost feel the icy sensation creep through his body. Without waiting to dispose of the bottle he walked away from Hermione, who was already downing her own bottle, and stepped into the black flames.

He couldn't feel them at all, but for a moment, as they surrounded him, the flames were all he could see or hear, they were the entire world to him.

And then the moment was over and he stepped into the last chamber, a small room that contained only two things – or rather, one thing and one person.

Stood at the far end of the chamber from Michael was the Mirror of Erised.

And between him and the mirror, turning to look at the new arrival, was Professor Quirrell.

.oOo.

"To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

"To the disorganized mind," Michael replied, "Everything is the next great adventure."

.oOo.

The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded a little. Michael gave an incredulous look at Dumbledore and muttered: "He _wouldn't_! Not _now_!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, only to fade slightly as he saw Michael direct a hostile glare at him. "Ahem," he said. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes..."

"First - to Mr. Ronald Weasley..."

Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn.

"...for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points."

Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other prefects, "My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall's giant chess set!"

At last there was silence again.

"Second - to Miss Hermione Granger... for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points."

Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up and down the table were beside themselves - they were a hundred points up. "Third - to Mr. Neville Longbottom..." said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet "There are all kinds of courage. It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award Gryffindor house fifteen points."

The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now had four hundred and twenty-seven points – moving them from last place to second.

Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent.

"Finally," said Dumbledore, smiling. "For demonstrating the intelligence of Ravenclaw, the loyalty of Hufflepuff, the courage of Gryffindor… and dare I say it, the cunning of Slytherin… I award fifty points to Mr. Hal Potter."

There was a stunned moment as Ravenclaw House added fifty points to four hundred and twenty-six and compared to result to Slytherin's four hundred and seventy-two. They had won the House Cup.

Michael glared along the table at Dumbledore. It was one thing to award points. He didn't really care about that. But setting everything up so the Slytherin's thought that they had the Cup and then ripping it away from them publically? He rose to his feet, pushing away Terry when he tried to restrain him. "How many points would it cost to me to suggest that you publically apologize to Slytherin House, for raising their hopes and then kicking them down in public?" he asked the Headmaster loudly. "You could have given the points at any time… but you had to do it now? With their banners already on the walls?"

There was a stunned silence.

"Perhaps," he added caustically, "You should also apologize to me for your shoddy and obvious attempt at bribery. My favour is not bought, Mr. Dumbledore – a concept that you will find in a dictionary under the word honour, something you clearly lack."

"Five points from Ravenclaw," Professor Snape announced in a silky voice. He caught Michael's eye and nodded grudgingly, although the boy doubted that Snape's feelings about him had changed in the slightest.

One at a time, Ravenclaw House stood and slowly marched away from the Great Hall and from Michael. He sat down again, now the only person at the entire table. There was scattered applause from the Slytherins but it died out in embarrassment when no one else clapped. Malfoy looked as if he'd bitten into an apple only to find a worm within it. Winning the House Cup was one thing – having to owe it to Michael was another matter entirely.

Filius Flitwick had paused before following his House out of the Hall. Dumbledore nodded to him. "I will have the feast served in your Common Room, Filius," he said quietly. He clapped his hands together and food appeared on the tables.

Michael ate alone that night and when he returned to the Ravenclaw Tower, the other students avoided even looking at him. After a moment scanning their ranks, he shrugged and went to bed. He would, he supposed, have been surprised by any other reaction.

.oOo.

It took quite a while for the mass of students to leave the Platform. A guard stood at the barrier to let them leave a few at a time – it would have given away the whole game to have students emerge from a seemingly solid wall in a continuing stream.

"You must come and stay this summer," Ron said to Michael. He looked at Hermione hesitantly and then added: "Both of you." Hermione blinked and then smiled. "I'll send you an owl," the redhead offered, "let you know when."

"Thanks," said Michael, "I'll look forward to it – I'm sure I can get an answer to you somehow, even if I have you paint Pollyanna black so she can sneak past the muggles."

The crowd moved around them as they moved towards the barrier again. Michael waved back to those few who said things like: "Bye, Hal!" or "See you, Potter!" – very few of them were Ravenclaws.

"Still famous," Ron grinned at him.

Michael grinned back, "Not out there," he said, pleasure evident in his voice. "Out there in the real world I can be nicely anonymous."

Michael, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway together.

"There he is, Mom, there he is, look!" It was Ron's younger sister, Ginny, but she wasn't pointing at Ron. "Harry Potter!" she squealed. "Look, Mom! I can see him!"

"Be quiet, Ginny, and it's rude to point." Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them. "Busy year?" she said.

Michael smiled. "Just a bit," he understated. "Thank you for the fudge and the sweater you sent me for Christmas, Mrs. Weasley."

"Oh, it was nothing, dear."

"Ready, are you?" It was Dursley, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Michael, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary people. Behind him stood his wife and Dudley, looking terrified at the very sight of Michael.

"You must be Harry's family!" said Mrs. Weasley.

"In a manner of speaking," said Uncle Vernon. "Hurry up, boy, we haven't got all day." He walked away.

Michael rolled his eyes and looked around for a moment before turning to Ron and Hermione. "Don't forget to write," he said. "See you when I see you."

"Hope you have - er - a good holiday," said Hermione, looking uncertainly after Dursley, shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.

"Oh, trust me, I will," Michael replied with a wink and lifted his rucksack onto his back before trotting off in the opposite direction from that which Dursley and his family had gone in.

Hermione's eyes widened as she realised where he was going but by the time she could say anything, Michael was out of sight and heading for the freedom of the streets.

"I wonder how long Dursley will wait," he muttered as he crossed the road towards the nearby station of St Pancreas.

.oOo.

A few days later, Michael was set up for the summer, his tent set up in a park hundreds of miles away from London. Before he found himself in a hut on an island, trapped in the body of Harry Potter, he had lived nearby and even if no one here remembered him and his family or friends – it was as if none of them had never been here – the city was much as he had remembered it. The park was mostly a large spread of grassy hills, with a playground at one end, several football fields and a small golf course. It was nothing like as pretty as the other park he remembered being in town, but it was close to the local library and was spacious enough that he could set up his tent and once the protective wards were up no one seemed to notice him. With that done he settled in and began to enjoy the summer.

That phase lasted about a week. Then he worked on the homework that he'd been set for the summer. After a week of work he concluded that it was all finished. Then he was bored again. The trouble with living within five minutes of the library he'd grown up near was that he'd already read just about everything they had that he cared about. However, it was there that he found the perfect way to keep himself busy. On the noticeboard for the library an advertisement caught his eye.

Apparently one of the schools in the town was holding classes over the summer for students to play catch up or prepare for the next year. Michael was no fonder of schoolwork than most school children but he was also aware that he was probably not going to be doing so well at all the things he'd been learning for two years before he found himself going to Hogwarts. So a few days later, he caught a bus towards the middle of the city and walked over to Queen's Park High School to sign up for a set of classes that would keep him more or less up to date with second year class material.

While they weren't all that entertaining in and of themselves, Michael found it kind of interesting to go to a normal school for a while. And after a few weeks he found all the old material was coming back to him. He even managed to find a company that would send class material out to families who home schooled and grade it if it was sent back. He made a careful note of their information. He'd probably regret it once he was at Hogwarts but if he could get the classwork sent to him there, which would be tricky to arrange, then he might be able to keep up with normal classes like maths and history and the like, all of which he would be expected to have if he were to get a job outside the Magical World.

.oOo.

Harry Potter could honestly say that he'd never been as happy in his life.

Admittedly, he wasn't entirely Harry Potter any more, but that was beside the point.

He'd gone to sleep on the cold floor of a hut far far out to sea and when he'd woken up he'd been in a comfortable bed in a completely unfamiliar bedroom. The room might not have been very large - just big enough for a bed, a desk, a bedside table and a small bookcase crammed with books he didn't recognise. Hung on the back of the door was a school uniform - not the grey dyed clothes he'd been provided for Stonewall High or the silly-looking get up that Dudley was stuck with at Smeltings. Instead there was a blue blazer with a crest on the breast pocket, a v-neck sweater to wear underneath, a simple blue tie with thin gold stripes and grey slacks. A pair of polished black shoes were next to the bed.

Harry could hardly resist trying them on, but he was sure that they couldn't be for him. Tentatively he reached for the door only to shrink back as he heard a door open and feet walk past to descend some wooden stairs. As he relaxed again - the footsteps had been heavy, those of a grown man - he noticed something odd. His forearms looked odd - paler than he had expected and heavily freckled.

Looking around he spotted a small mirror on top of the bookcase, attached to a little stand with a hairbrush and a few other items. It was too dark to see anything so he cautiously drew back one of the curtains. Outside was a small street, with only a few houses, that rose up the side of a hill towards a rugged grassy area that looked nothing like the rigidly sculpted park of Little Whinging. The sky was grey with high clouds that were too light to seriously threaten rain. He was a long way from home, he realised.

Looking back at the mirror, he saw a high forehead and freckled cheeks that matched the forearms he'd seen. A mass of unruly blond hair - paler than Dudley's, almost golden - was sticking up in all directions and crooked white teeth were set in a cleft jaw. He rubbed his eyes and so did the boy he saw. Looking at the door again, he realised that he was tall - more than five feet tall.

He sat down hard on the bed. What was going on? Where was he? Why didn't he look like himself anymore? Had the Durselys got rid of him, as they'd so often threatened?

There was a letter on the desk and he picked it up, hoping that it would tell him something useful about where he was. It was addressed to a boy called Michael and welcomed him to a School - not Hogwarts School of Magic, as he'd half expected, but to what seemed to be a grammar school, catering to the smarter students. Michael was apparently transferring into the third year of the school. The crest on the letterhead matched the one on the jacket when Harry compared the two. Doing so he noticed that a nametag was inside the jacket. Obviously this was Michael's school uniform and Harry realised that it would fit his new body perfectly.

It had indeed, and it appeared that it was time for Michael's first day at the school, or at least that was what Harry gathered from the tall man who'd offered him breakfast when he ventured downstairs. There was a dining table at one end of the long room that ran from the front of the house to the other and Harry got a bowl of cereal and a glass of apple juice for himself, with some prompting from the man, who seemed to find it amusing that 'Michael' was so excited he'd forgotten where everything was in their new house. The man then provided bacon and a poached egg that were almost as good as those Harry had learned to make for Aunt Petunia. He put the dishes in the kitchen, by the dishwasher, and imagined how jealous Aunt Petunia would be of this family for having a luxury like that.

In the main room there were a lot of photos - on the walls, on top of the mantelpiece, along the top of the piano. Looking around, Harry saw that almost all of them showed one or more of what seemed to be his new family - two boys with blond hair like his, one several years younger than the other (he appeared to be the older), a dark haired girl who seemed to be between them in age, the man from the kitchen and a large, slightly plump woman with a mass of brown curls and a smiling face. Evidently Michael wasn't a new arrival in the family - his face was everywhere. The most recent picture showed him and the dark haired girl standing on the small patio outside the kitchen, Michael in the uniform that Harry now wore and the girl in what was evidently the female version.

And, much to Harry's surprise, everything had gone very well. No one had suspected that he wasn't the same boy who had been there the night before. He and his sister had been guided to their school by a girl from across the road who went to the same school, a huge and imposing building a few miles away in the next village. No one knew him there of course, and the teachers accepted the occasional difficulty he had in class as being due to his old school not having been as challenging. Which was true after a fashion.

By Christmas, Harry had quite forgotten about having to keep his grades worse than Dudley and was almost caught up. Without being the victim of Dudley's bullying he had been able to make friends with the boys and could play gleefully on the heath at the end of the street with his new brother. And at Christmas, his life was officially complete - he'd had almost a dozen presents, from cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents.

At last, he had a life that he could be happy about.

.oOo.

"You've been told to get all Lockhart's books, too!" Fred (or possibly George) said, looking over Michael's shoulder at the letter. "The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan - bet it's a witch." Mrs Weasley didn't seem to like that comment and the twin (whichever of them it was) prudently retreated from the conversation to spread marmalade on his toast.

The other twin looked cautiously at the adult Weasleys. "That lot won't come cheap," he said. "Lockhart's books are really expensive..."

Michael winced. "I was afraid you'd say that," he muttered. "Seven expensive books is going to make an absolute mess of this year's budget. Don't suppose anyone feels like splitting the costs?"

"Are you okay, mate?" Ron asked.

"I can manage," Michael said in an annoyed voice. "It'll mean not buying stuff I wanted, but I won't be out anything _important_."

Mrs Weasley was looking worried. "I'm sure it will be alright," she said. "I expect that we'll be able to pick up a lot of your things second-hand."

Michael nodded absently, then blinked. "For that matter," he said thoughtfully. "We don't all need copies – Fred and George won't have DADA at the same time as either Ron or I so we could go shares on, say, two copies of Lockhart's books and simply pass them around depending upon who needs them at any given time. That way we could save a bunch of money and get good copies, rather than second hand ones – I'd rather not have to worry about missing pages."

The Weasley's looked at each other thoughtfully. "Well perhaps three copies," Mrs Weasley said thoughtfully. "Ginny and Percy would need to use them as well."

"I'd forgotten about that," Michael admitted. "Sorry Ginny," he added.

Ginny muttered something, blushing furiously and followed up by accidentally putting her elbow squarely into the butterdish. Michael winced as he saw the strands of wool that remained there. Don't eat the butter for the next couple of meals, he noted, but decided against embarrassing her by pointing out the gaffe – it was hardly her fault that she was a bit clumsy.

"Morning, all," Percy said briskly as he walked in, wearing his prefect's badge. "Lovely day." He pulled back a chair to sit down but then stopped and lifted a rather battered looking owl from it, where the bird had apparently collapsed after some great exertion.

.oOo.

Outside Gringotts, the group parted ways. Percy was muttering about needing a new quill, while the twins had simply spotted Lee Jordan on the street and went off with him. Mr. Weasley offered to take Hermione's parents to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink so that they could recover from their brief immersion in the Wizarding World while Mrs Weasley took Ginny to a secondhand robe shot for her uniform.

This, of course, left Michael, Ron and Hermione together and at a slight loose end. "We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks," Mrs. Weasley instructed before she left with Ginny. "And not one step down Knockturn Alley!" she shouted to Fred and George.

The three friends strolled off down the cobbled street, that reminded Michael of parts of York, up near the Minster. Of course, Diagon Alley was probably just about as old as those ancient streets. Three ice creams cost only a few knuts and they each got their preferred flavour to slurp down as the wandered from shop window to shop window. They saw the twins and Lee in a joke shop, and missed seeing Percy in the shop where they bought their ink and parchment – probably because Ron insisted on spending quite some time staring longingly at a violently orange Quidditch strip in one window.

They finally came across the Prefectly brother in a tiny junk shop. Michael had been before – it was a handy way to pick up his needs without depleting his vault too badly, and he nodded politely to the owner before they started looking through the junk. Percy was stood by one of the narrow bookshelves, deeply engrossed in a small book called 'Prefects Who Gained Power'.

"A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers," Ron read off the back cover of the book. "That sounds fascinating…"

'Deadly dull', Michael translated to himself while Percy snapped irritably at Ron.

"'Course, he's very ambitious, Percy, he's got it all planned out... He wants to be Minister of Magic..." Ron told Michael and Hermione in an undertone as they left Percy to it.

"There's nothing wrong with a little ambition," Michael said thoughtfully. "But it can burn you up if you don't learn to restrain it."

"Percy practically takes a bath in ambition," Ron muttered.

"If you treat the office of Minister as fit only for scum," Michael pointed out, "then you can hardly complain when only scum seek it out. Who knows, Percy might make a good job of it."

Flourish and Blotts was exceptionally busy that day. A large crowd was trying to push their way into the store, making it almost impossible for the three twelve year olds to get through the much larger women who seemed to make up most of the assembly. Michael scratched his head and was wondering what was causing this when Hermione squealed and pointed up at the large banner hung out of the windows of the upper storey.

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

today 12:30 P.m. to 4:30 P.m.

"We can actually meet him!" Hermione squealed. "I mean, he's written almost the whole booklist!"

"Looks like his book's going to be sold out the minute they put it on the shelves," Michael replied. "It's not on the booklist is it?"

Ron shook his head. "Not that one. They'll have plenty of the others though – Mum says that Flourish and Blotts get sent a copy of the booklists in advance to make sure the get enough in."

.oOo.

Lockhart looked over at the comment and then looked past Ron and saw Michael standing behind him. His eyes widened and he jumped to his feet. "It can't be Harry Potter?" he shouted in a delighted voice.

Michael groaned and tried to hide behind Ron but the crowd parted around them and Lockhart plunged towards them, seizing Michael's arm and pulling him towards the front. Michael latched onto Ron and the redhead was towed after them. Lockhart, not realising that he was dragging two boys not one, turned and tried to shake Michael's hand.

"Help!" Michael shouted as loud as he could. "Get this weirdo off of me!"

Lockhart's set grin faltered as the camera clicked and captured the image of him obviously overpowering two young boys. He let got of Michael. "Now now Harry, no need to be shy," he said brightly.

Michael glared. "I'm not the Boy-Who-Lived," he spat. "For chrissake, I can't even walk around any more. No wonder Harry prefers hanging around with Muggles. You're all daft!"

"You're… not Harry Potter?" Lockhart said hesitantly.

"Do you grab every kid with glasses?" Michael snorted. "I just look like a bit him, that's all." With a snort, he turned his back and headed for the crowd. The cameraman reflexively snapped another picture and Michael felt a hot rush of anger. He turned a burning glare upon the man and blinked as the fury seemed to rush out of him. There was a sharp crack and the lenses of the camera shattered. The cameraman's jaw dropped and he looked at the camera with dismay. Michael blinked, recovering his scattered wits and then shrugged and walked on, the crowd parting in front of him.

.oOo.

Louder than anyone however was the voice of Hagrid as he waded through the crowd towards them. "Break it up, there, gents, break it up -" In an instant he had pulled the two grown men apart and scowled at Ron and Michael until they backed off from Draco, who was doubled over on the ground as a result of Michael jamming a knee into his stomach. The boy also had a bloody nose from Ron's jab to the face and his father was probably going to have a lovely shiner after Mr Weasley had caught him in the eye with an Encyclopedia. For their part, Ron and Michael were unmarked while Ron's father sported only a cut lip.

Lucius Malfoy glared at them and then thrust Ginny's old Transfiguration book, which he was still holding, at her. "Here, girl - take your book - it's the best your father can give you -" he said maliciously and then swept out of the shop, followed hastily by Draco when the boy saw Michael smiling nastily at him.

.oOo.

"Why didn't you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?" Professor Flitwick said sadly to Harry.

Michael met his gaze stonily. "What for?" he snorted. "You made it entirely clear last year that you wouldn't believe me if I said there was trouble. So why waste my time when it's perfectly evident that I have to handle my problems myself."

Professor Flitwick looked taken aback and Professor Snape snorted. "Feeling persecuted are you, Potter?" he sneered.

"Don't you have a small kitten somewhere to bully?" Michael replied contemptously.

"You should show respect to Professor Snape," Flitwick chastised.

Michael rolled his eyes. "I try to respect him, Professor, really I do. But it's very difficult because he's such a smeghead."

"Mind your language," snapped Professor McGonagall.

"Do you even know what it means?" Michael asked mildly. "In any event, Snape has yet to give me any reason to respect him – in fact, if Hogwarts had a code of conduct for Professors to follow he'd be out on his arse."

"Mind your language!" Snape snapped a moment before Flitwick said, "Hogwarts _has_ got a code of conduct for Professors."

"Do you not enforce it?" Michael sneered, ignoring Ron's shrinking back against the wall, out of the line of fire. "Or does it _give_ Professors permission to blatantly sabotage student's grades? Or subtly do so, for that matter?"

"What are you talking about?" Flitwick asked. "I have never -"

"Last year, Professor Snape dropped half the potions I made all over the floor of the Potions class and docked points for letting him getting away with it and did likewise when his other instructions were obeyed – I was particularly impressed by taking points for letting other student's potions fail when he clearly forbids interference in other student's work," Michael spat. "And I seriously doubt if I'm the only one who deals with that crap off him or that I'm the only one to report it. End result? Nothing. The lot of you let him get away with it so you're all responsible."

.oOo.

"Hal," Dumbledore said, a little plainitively. "Why do you find it so difficult to admit that I might sometimes know things you don't?"

Michael's lips curled into a smile as he recalled reading words almost identical over the winter. "Start with your unwillingness to tell me these things."

Dumbledore was silent a long moment. Then, "I'm afraid there is something to what you say," he replied. "But there were strong reasons for not talking of such matters."

"Then perhaps we should discuss this inability to tell me," Michael suggested, somewhat ironically. "Tell me now why you didn't trust me then."

"It wasn't a matter of trust," Dumbledore insisted.

Michael gave him a dubious look. "Is it okay to tell me now what it was?"

Another, longer silence followed. "No," the old professor finally said "Not yet."

The twelve-year old boy turned toward him, with a struggle, keeping his features composed and his voice level. "Then nothing has changed," Michael said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "nor ever shall. You still do not trust me."

"That isn't true," Dumbledore answered, glancing at Ron. "It is just that this is not the proper time or the proper place to go into these matters."

"Whatever," Michael snorted. "So, is there anything else that you would like to say?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Just one more thing, Hal. At the end of last year you criticised me for raising House Slytherin's hopes of winning the House Cup and then dashing those hopes. But did you not do exactly the same thing to your own House?"

Michael paused and then his mouth twisted as if he tasted something unpleasant. "'I'm afraid there is something to what you say'," he threw the headmaster's words back at him. "There is a fine distinction – I didn't raise the hopes of Ravenclaw in the first place. Still, I'll try to be less like you in future."

.oOo.

"All right, Harry? I'm - I'm Colin Creevey," the boy announced said breathlessly and stepped nervously towards them. "I'm in Gryffindor. D'you think - would it be all right if - can I have a picture?" he asked hopefully, raising his camera.

Michael frowned. "A picture?" he asked. "What of?"

Colin came closer. "Of you! So I can prove I've met you," he said. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and Michael held up his hand to stop him from continuing.

"I suppose it's possible," Michael said mildly. "You can take one if you really want," he added.

Colin looked ecstatic. "Do you think your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?" he asked, with an imploring look.

.oOo.

Michael looked down at his paper and read:

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart 's favorite color?

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

"Oh you have got to be fucking kidding," he muttered and flipped through the rest of the questions until he reached the last one:

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Incredulously, he checked the questions again, then crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room where it bounced into the wastepaper bin by the door. Lockhart, absorbed in scribbling something at his desk, didn't notice although several students did. Antony Goldstein looked absolutely shocked that 'The Boy-Who-Lived' would misbehave in class. He said nothing, however, as Michael produced a rather battered book from his bag and began to read it.

Half an hour later, Lockhart paused in collecting the papers, standing over Michael, who had his head bowed as he read the little book. "Where's your test paper, Harry?" he asked, flashing a grin at the boy.

"What?" Michael asked, looking up.

"The test paper," Lockhart said, in the tone of someone jollying along a slower friend.

"Oh, that," Michael said, as if in belated understanding. "In the rubbish."

"What!?"

"Well, it was rubbish, so I figured that that was where it belonged," Michael said absently, returning his attention to the book.

"I'm sure that you didn't do too poorly Harry," Lockhart laughed.

"I was talking about the questions," Michael said flatly. "This is a class in Defence Against Dark Arts, not a bookclub for lonely housewives."

Lockhart stared at Michael in mute incomprehension. "I don't know what you're trying to get at Harry," he said.

"You've succeeded in making a worse impression than your predecessor," Michael replied. "Which takes some doing, I can tell you."

Lockhart flashed his 'famous smile'. "Harry, Harry, Harry," he chuckled. "I can understand that you feel a little overshadowed…"

Michael stared at him in disbelief. The idiot apparently was that self-absorbed. Then he snorted and let that turn into a cheerful laugh. "Oh you're perfectly welcome to your celebrity," he said mildly. "It's your pathetic efforts as a teacher that annoy me."

Lockhart shot him an irritated look but then smoothed his face. "I'm going to have to take points from you, for that Harry," he said with feigned regret as he walked back to his desk. "Which House are you in?"

"Slytherin," Michael replied with a straight face, ignoring the rather strange looks he got from the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws in the room.

"Five points from Slytherin then," Lockhart declared. "And let that be a lesson to you."

There was a snigger from someone at the back of the class, but Lockhart missed it as he bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it. "Now then – to business. Be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

A hush fell on the room as the students stared intently at the cage. One of the Hufflepuff girls sank low in her chair and tried to hide behind her textbook, barely peeking over the top of its shielding bulk.

"I must ask you not to scream," the teacher said in a low voice. "It might provoke them." With a dramatic flourish, Lockhart whipped off the cover. "Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."

Michael's jaw dropped open. In appearance, Cornish pixies were, essentially, smurfs – eight inches tall with blue skin and pointed faces. Once the cover had been removed, they started jabbering in shrill voices and bouncing around the cage like two-year olds with far too sugar in their systems.

.oOo.

Michael frowned at the sound of chanting from the other side of the common room. "Loony, Loony, Luna," carolled two voices, "Loony, Loony, Luna."

Craning his neck he peered around the back of the armchair that he was ensouced in and spotted a pair of third years – Cho Chang and Marietta something-or-other throwing a bag back and forth across that side of the common room. Between them a small blonde girl that he didn't recognise was trying to catch it. She looked a bit like one of his cousins, which reminded him eventually that she was one of the first years that he'd seen sorted, Luna Lovegood.

At first he thought that the older girls had conned Luna into helping them with practising a Chaser pattern – he was pretty sure that Cho was Quidditch-mad and Marietta was a friend of hers. But then Luna turned to face him and he saw moisture glistening in the corner of her eyes. With a sigh he pulled his wand out of his robe's sleeve and flicked it casually. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said clearly, and the bag came to an abrupt halt in mid-air before lowering itself into the surprised Luna's hands.

"Don't you have breakfast to get to?" Michael asked, and Luna nodded eagerly before scurrying out of the common room, bag in hand. He wasn't sure if she'd forgotten the older girls entirely, was late to meet a friend or simply scatterbrained, but he didn't suppose it mattered.

"Who asked you to butt in?" Marietta snapped at him.

"Professor McGonagall," he replied calmly.

"What!" Cho gasped, looking around as if she expected the Deputy-Headmistress to jump out of some dark corner.

"Didn't you get the speech?" Michael asked casually. "The one she gives before the Sorting, about a House being like a family? I wouldn't let anyone treat my sister like that, if I had one. So why would I let you treat Luna like that?"

"It was just a bit of fun," Marietta whined.

"If you wish to continue with your own bags, then do so by all means," Michael replied somewhat distantly. "Taking someone else's without their permission is another matter."

.oOo.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry - you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"

"Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?" Ron muttered in Michael's ear.

"Probably too much to hope," Michael replied regretfully. "We might be rid of Lockhart though," he added hopefully on seeing Snape's expression. It was even more vindicative than those usually directed at Michael in potions class, which took some doing.

The two Professors turned to face each other and Lockhart bowed flamboyantly, a gesture that Snape returned with a curt jerk of his head. Their wands were raised and aimed for the ceiling, something that would presumably change in just a moment.

"As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart announced. "On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."

"Spoilsport," Michael muttered, loud enough to be heard by half the students gathered there, elicting a wave of giggles.

"One - two - three -"

On the count of three the two wizards, moved their wands, each aiming at the other. Snape was a hair faster and cried out "Expelliarmus!" With a flash of crimson light Lockhart was hurled violently backwards off the stage, not stopping until he hit the wall. He slid down it slowly, finally coming to rest on the floor, a dazed look on his face.

There was burst of cheering from the crowd of Slytherins around Malfoy and Michael applauded politely. The duel had, after all, been a win-win proposition for him. Hermione, on the other, had covered her mouth with her hand and looked horrified. "Do you think he's alright?" she asked nervously.

"Who cares?" Ron asked.

Unfortunately, Lockhart recovered swiftly and rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily. He'd lost his hat en route to the wall and his hair was no longer in its usual perfect waves. "Well, there you have it!" he told them all as he returned to the platform. "That was a Disarming Charm - as you see, I've lost my wand -" One of the Gryffindor girls had picked it up and handed the slim wand over. "Ah, thank you, Miss Brown - yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy - however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see..."

Snape scowled. Clearly he did mind Lockhart saying so.

Whether it was blithe obliviousness or a previously well-concealed survival instinct was unclear but Lockhart did not dwell on his assertion. "Enough demonstrating!" he said brightly. "I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me -"

It was Snape who reached Michael, Ron and Hermione first as the two Professors sorted through the crowd. "Time to split up the dream team, I think," he said with his characteristic sneer. "Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter -" He looked over his shoulder. "Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger - you can partner Miss Bulstrode."

Millicent Bulstrode was a particularly muscular Slytherin girl – she looked, if anything, rather more intimidating than Crabbe or Goyle and didn't return Hermione's weak smile. Where she was unfriendly, Malfoy was positively oozing smugness as he strutted over. The confidence all slipped away however as Michael turned to Snape with a broad smile on his face.

"Why Professor," the Ravenclaw said cheerfully. "And here was me thinking you didn't like me. And now you give me such a delightful early Christmas present – Draco on the end of my wand." He waved to the suddenly confused blond Slytherin. "Come on Draco, let's settle our differences… once and for all."

"Face your partners!" called Lockhart, back on the platform. "And bow!"

Sadly, Malfoy wasn't stupid enough to take his eyes off Michael as he inclined his head. Michael didn't bother with any gesture of respect for his opponent at all. He didn't, and he didn't care who knew it either.

"Wands at the ready!" shouted Lockhart. "When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents - only to disarm them - we don't want any accidents - one... two... three -"

Malfoy cast his spell on 'two', which was annoying but didn't particularly surprise Michael. It felt as if he'd been smacked hard over the head by something, but it wasn't actually a disabling blow. Michael's "Expelliarmus!", on the other hand, spun Malfoy almost full circle as his wand was torn out of his hand in a flash of crimson light. A quick leg-locker curse took out the off-balance Slytherin's legs from under him and he landed hard, smacking the point of his jaw on the floor.

"Stop! Stop!" screamed Lockhart while Snape took the more productive step of shouting "Finite Incantatem!" to dispel the effects that were running riot through the room.

Most of the effects, anyway. There was still a haze of smoke through the room and more than half the students were on the floor as a result of the brief exchange of spells. Ron was supporting his opponent, the boy having taken the brunt of whatever Ron's notoriously unpredictable wand had accomplished this time. Hermione was still moving although Millicent Bulstrode had her in a headlock that she didn't release until Michael pointed his wand squarely between her eyes and opened his mouth to curse her off the Gryffindor.

It took several minutes to restore order, mostly as a result of Lockhart's inept instructions and several of the would-be duellists left the room, heading for the infirmary.

"I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells," said Lockhart, with a nervous glance at Professor Snape. "Let's have a volunteer pair - Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you -"

"A bad idea, Professor Lockhart," Snape said with a twisted smile. "Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox." Neville's round, pink face went pinker.

"It wouldn't happen if you weren't strong," Michael advised the other boy under his breath. "Practise more and you'll get it under control."

"Since you're such an authority, Potter," Snape said sarcastically, "You and Malfoy can be our volunteers."

"Remind me to get you a dictionary for Christmas," Michael muttered as the volunteers moved into the middle of the hall and the crowd spread out around them.

"Now, Harry," said Lockhart. "When Draco points his wand at you, you do this." He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked and Michael covered his eyes with his hand and counted to ten.

Lockhart quickly picked the wand up again. "Whoops - my wand is a little overexcited -"

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too, rubbing his jaw where he'd hit it on the floor. "Scared?" muttered Malfoy, so that the crowd couldn't hear him.

Michael simply smirked and chuckled lightly.

Lockhart, oblivious to the little moment of dramatic rivalry, cuffed Michael merrily on the shoulder. "Just do what I did, Harry!"

"Don't be daft, I plan to win."

Fortunately for his ego, Lockhart wasn't listening. Instead he opened his mouth and announced: "Three - two - one - go!"

Malfoy raised his wand quickly (on the 'three' now that he had an attentive audience) and bellowed, "Serpensortia!" The end of his wand exploded. Michael watched, slightly puzzled, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.

Ignoring the commotion, Michael flicked his wand. "Petrificus Totalus," he said casually, freezing Malfoy – the Slytherin had foolishly lowered his guard to gloat at the effects of his spell. A second application of the spell turned the snake what was effectively a statue before either Snape (who didn't seem in any particular hurry) or Lockhart (who was too busy brandishing his wand to actually cast anything) responded.

There was a pause as the students realised that the duel was over. Michael used the time to stroke the snake's head gently, recalling from past visits to zoos that snakeskin was neither cold nor unpleasant to the touch and then to poke Malfoy in the chest, toppling the other boy backwards onto the floor.

"You were supposed to use the charm Professor Lockhart showed you, Potter," Snape observed silkily.

Michael shrugged. "I don't think throwing my wand away would have contributed anything," he replied amiably. "Besides, the shield spell only protects against direct hexing," he added. "It would be a waste of time against a conjuring like that." He waved his wand and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke.

.oOo.

Michael had a rather idiosyncratic perspective on the 14th of February. He'd never been terribly romantic, so it had always stuck his mind more as the birthday of his first girlfriend than as Valentine's day. He didn't link the girlfriend to romance because, basically, they'd only been five years old at the time. So he was momentarily taken aback by the state of the Great Hall on the morning of Valentine's Day.

Large pink flower arrangements decorated the walls. Confetti was falling from the ceiling (heart-shaped confetti!) which was displaying a perfectly clear blue sky rather than the clouds that were actually dominating the weather this early in the year. He looked over at the Gryffindor table and saw that Ron Weasley was so nauseated that he was barely eating while Hermione Granger was giggling helplessly. Fred and George Weasley were not evident, which more or less eliminated them as culprits – they'd not have wanted to miss the look on everybody's faces if they'd been there.

With a wave of greeting to his friends in Gryffindor, Michael looked around the room to find the culprit. It didn't take more than half-a-second to realise who was at fault. Gilderoy Lockhart was standing behind the teacher's table and wearing the most revoltingly pink robes that Michael had ever seen. Either Gilderoy had lost a bet or he had actually managed the extraordinary feat of being stupider than Michael had given him credit for. Given that he was actually waving his arms for attention, Michael could only presume that it was the latter.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" the resplendently pink moron shouted. "And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all - and it doesn't end here!" He clapped his hands and in response the doors to the entrance hall opened to admit a dozen dwarves, all wearing golden wings, carrying harps and displaying matching surly faces. Lockhart beamed even wider and identified the dwarves as: "My friendly, card-carrying cupids!"

"They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn't stop here! I'm sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you're at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I've ever met, the sly old dog!"

These descriptions did not appear to please either professor in the least and Michael felt a surprising pang of sympathy for Professor Snape. Fortunately it was quite brief and so he didn't feel it was necessary to approach Madame Pomfrey for treatment despite the worrying symptom.

.oOo.

The 'card-carrying cupids' spent the rest of the day barging into classrooms to deliver valentines to various students and occasionally to teachers. Michael was quite prepared to ignore them – he suspected that Fred and George had been sending quite a number of valentines calculated to be embarrassing – but late that afternoon his own turn came as he headed for the transfiguration class.

"Oy, you! 'Al Potter!" the dwarf bellowed down the corridor, pushing people out of its way as it came.

Michael groaned. Getting a 'valentine' was not on his list of things that he wanted to happen that day. Whipping out his wand, he glanced around and noticed that no teachers were in sight. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said and the dwarf squawked as he was hoisted into the air. "Do you think you'd bounce if you went over the bannister?" he asked the 'cupid', who was stretching his legs desperately towards the floor but coming short by an inch or two. "Or would your wings support you?"

"Put me down!" the dwarf shrieked.

"There's down," Michael pointed out, edging the dwarf slightly towards the stone rail that marked the edge of the corridor. "And then there's down, if you see what I mean."

"I've got a musical message to deliver to 'Al Potter in person," the dwarf wailed.

"I've got a meeting with the floor for anyone who delivers it," Michael replied flatly. "Spread the word to your pals. 'Al Potter' is off-limits."

"That'd be murder!" came an even louder wail that rose nastily in pitch as the Dwarf found himself moved back to right over the rail. "Alrigh', alrigh'! Whatever you say!"

Michael paused for a long moment and then held out his hand. "Give me the damn valentine."

Nervously, the Dwarf produced a slip of parchment and Michael accepted it before letting the dwarf settle back to the floor. Without unfolding the parchment, Michael held it up to one of the torches that lit the corridor and watched it blacken and burn away, dropping the last shreds onto the floor.

.oOo.

Alone of Hogwarts teachers, Gilderoy Lockhart was unaffected by the somber mood that hung over the school. He pranced into the classroom, brimming with exuberance. "Come now," he cried, beaming around him. "Why all these long faces?"

The students exchanged annoyed looks and Michael, resting his face on one hand, rolled his eyes irritably.

"Don't you people realize," said Lockhart, speaking slowly, as though they were all a bit dim, "the danger has passed! The culprit has been taken away -"

Michael laughed sarcastically. "A convenient scapegoat has been taken away, you mean."

Lockhart shook his head. "My dear Hal, the Minister of Magic wouldn't have taken Hagrid if he hadn't been one hundred percent sure that he was guilty."

"The Minister of Magic, under political pressure by the noisy pureblood fanatics who paid for his election campaign, arrested a member of staff for the sake of appearances," Michael replied amicably. "I make a point of keeping tabs on the movers and shakers, Professor… The Minister has no more idea than you do what person or at creature is at fault."

"I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid's arrest than you do, Hal," said Lockhart in a self-satisfied tone.

"You do indeed flatter yourself," Michael shot back.

.oOo.

"Dammit," Michael growled and with a quick look around the chamber for threats he dashed over to her, holding his wand in one hand and lifting her head off the floor with the other. Her face was shockingly chilled, but when he pressed two fingers against the pale skin of her neck he could feel blood pulsing through her carotid artery. Alive then.

"Wake up," he whispered. "Wake up, Ginny."

But she did not respond. Instead a soft voice came from behind him: "She won't wake."

Michael whirled, rising to his feet heedless of Ginny as she tumbled away and his wand came around to aim at the heart of the tall, black-haired boy who leant against one of the chamber's huge pillars. Michael's eyes narrowed as he realised that the boy was blurred slightly around the edges – not immaterial as were the ghosts of Hogwarts, but at the same time, not entirely of the material. The light of Michael's wand also made it clear who the boy was.

"Riddle me this;" Michael said in reply, "Riddle me that. A Basilisk is not a spider, Tom; why would you think that?"

.oOo.

Michael gulped, but gathered his courage and dropped his wand as he leapt for one of the stone pillars, picking one that was well away from Ginny and Tom Riddle. He'd already guessed what he would have to face down here but he'd had no time to come up with anything special, anything clever. All he could do was hope that the conversation with Riddle hadn't been long enough for the potion he'd taken to wear off.

"What do you think you're going to do, Harry?" Riddle asked, mockingly. "What can you do against Slytherin's legacy?"

"Muggle magic," Michael answered, grabbing hold of the pillar, wrapping his arms around it and bracing himself for what he would have to do.

"'Muggle' magic?" Riddle sneered. "Muggles don't have magic, you fool."

"Wizards use wands and spells," Michael gasped, taking a deep breath and aiming for the length of serpent that had already descended from the statue. "The ingredients for muggle magic are a little different."

Riddle snorted. "Like what?"

Michael's lips peeled back in a manic grin. "Brute force and ignorance!" he howled as he wrenched at the pillar with all his strength.

For a heart-stopping moment there was no movement, but then stone grated upon stone and Michael launched himself into a staggering run away from the collapsing ceiling arches, carrying the pillar like an huge, unwieldy caber.

"IMPOSSIBLE!" Riddle shouted in disbelief, but Michael's attention was elsewhere.

Caber-tossing was an obscure sport that Michael had heard of but never seen, however, he had tried throwing a javelin or two back when he was at a school where sports encompassed more than flapping around on broomsticks. He didn't think any sportsman had ever tried throwing a stone pillar that must have weighed several tons – much less tried to aim it at a moving snake. Nonetheless, with a scream that was half-fear as he felt the potions effects fade, he hurled the pillar length on at the statue and the snake that dangled from its mouth, grabbing the end of the pillar once it was past him and using the last dregs of his strength to drive the pillar on and on until it was cracked, splintered and shattered, just like the statue that he had targeted.

Then, momentarily exhausted, he fell to his knees and watched dispassionately as the front three yards of the Basilisk flopped and died, severed entirely from the rest of the body by the crushing weight of ton after ton of fallen stone.

"Inconceivable," Riddle muttered, watching the same scene.

"You keep saying that," Michael smirked wearily. "I do not think that it means what you think it means." He reached aside and picked up the Sorting Hat from where it had fallen off his head as he ran with the pillar. Swatting it against his thigh to remove the dust, he considered putting it back onto his head, but then reconsidered.

"Idiotic Gryffindor," Riddle snorted. "But I repeat myself. Did it ever occur to you that you could have brought down the whole ceiling and killed us all?"

Michael shrugged. "With barrel vaulting like that?" he asked rhetorically, pointing at the ceiling with his free hand. "Never happen. I'd have to take out half the pillars in the place to do that." He grinned. "I'm in Ravenclaw, cully – a thousand times more thoughtful that you Slytherin louts."

Riddle blinked and then laughed, cruelly. "There is one thing you have not thought about though," he said, raising a familiar looking wand. "Unicorn hair," he mused. "Not my preferred wand but more than adequate to finish you off. In fact, this should be even more satisfying than giving you to the Basilisk. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me..."

Michael felt the hat in his hand squirm and then contract, as if squeezed at the sides. He grabbed in it both hands and something hard rose out of it. Seizing hold of it he drew it up and out of the hat, his grin returning as he recognised the object as a sword. More than one quote flowed through his mind and he gave voice to the one that he felt was most appropriate: "One shall stand – one shall fall."

Riddle's eyes went wide as he saw the silver sword in Michael's hand, huge rubies glittering at the hilt. "The sword of Gryffindor…" he said, almost reverently. Then he shook off the feeling and lowered the wand to aim at the boy. "Well said," he coldly. "Perhaps they'll put it on your tombstone."

.oOo.

Michael heard a moan from the other end of the Chamber and drew in a long breath, before rising to his feet. Even his aches had aches and he felt very, very tired. Slowly, he turned and saw Ginny sitting up, brown eyes flicking across the massed coils of the Basilisk to the diary on the floor and then up at Michael's face. With an effort he forced a smile, but rather than reassuring her, it caused the girl to gasp and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Hal - oh, Hal - I tried to tell you at b-breakfast, but I c-couldn't say it in front of Percy - it was me, Harry - but I - I s-swear I d-didn't mean to -"

Tucking his wand away as he crossed the room to her, as swiftly as he could manage, Michael wondered if every damsel in distress felt so much guilt and shame.

"- R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over – and -"

Ginny was cut off as Michael reached her and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her against him. With one thumb he brushed the tears off her cheek. "Thank heavens you're alive," he said hoarsely. "I was afraid that I'd be too late."

.oOo.

"You're not going anywhere," Vernon grunted. "I may not want your strangeness here, but it's you or having half-a-dozen of your freak friends pop in and out all summer to look for you."

"And you're going to earn your keep," Petunia interjected shrilly. "You've been nothing but a burden on us for years."

"You mean aside from the money you were getting for my upkeep?" Michael asked. "I was very interested to find out about that once I took a look at my finances."

Vernon's piggy eyes narrowed. "That pittance! It's hardly enough to keep you fed!"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "I doubt even Dudley eats a thousand pounds worth of food in a month," he replied. "And since he looks like a pregnant pig and I'm quite a bit smaller, I suspect that I eat less, not more. In any event, those payments hardly matter anymore."

"Why not?" Vernon asked suspiciously

"I told the bank to stop them," Michael said. "After all, I don't live with you anymore, do I?"

"You ungrateful brat!" Petunia shrieked. "After all we've done for you!"

"You're going to go right back to the bank and having them start the payments again," Vernon ordered in a loud voice.

"Can't," Michael said shortly.

"What!?"

"The bank's in London," Michael explained. "I'm not allowed to leave the house, remember?"

"To blazes with that!" Vernon roared. "Get in the car right this instant."

"I'll just -" Michael began.

"THIS INSTANT!"

Michael shrugged and went to the door, still carrying his bag. After all, he had offered to put the bag away. It wasn't his fault that Vernon Dursley hadn't heard him out.

Within minutes they were driving back down the road towards London, Vernon driving with even more of the heavy-handedness that Michael had noted earlier. "Give me that stick of yours," Vernon grunted as they entered the centre of London. "I'm not having any of that unnaturalness of yours."

"Stick?" Michael asked. Oh, now that just wasn't acceptable.

"That thing you wave when you do your," Vernon's voice lowered even though there was no one else in the car to hear him, "Magic."

"My wand!" Michael protested.

"Hand it over, boy!"

Michel grumbled and reached into his jacket. For a moment his fingers touched on his wand and then he touched something else, long slender and wooden. That fake wand of Fred and George's, he realised. Perfect. With feigned reluctance he pulled it out and put it in Vernon Dursley's pudgy hand.

Satisfied, Vernon shoved the wand into the glove compartment.

.oOo.

It took almost half an hour for them to find a parking place and Vernon looked around suspiciously at the buildings nearby. "I don't see a bank," he complained.

"We're not parked right outside it," Michael replied patiently. "It's up that way, past the record shop."

Vernon squinted and scowled, then began to march Michael up the street. "They'd better be open," he growled.

Michael rolled his eyes. "They're open all the time," he said, his own eyes fixed on the door to the Leaky Cauldron. He waited until they were level with the door before pointing at a car across the road. "Now that's a nice car," he declared.

With a frown Vernon glared at the car. "It's a load of rubbish," he declared. "Foreign made, bet it breaks down all the time. Don't spout nonsense like that, b-" He broke off his rebuttal as he realised that he was alone. Michael, and his bag, were gone.

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, and thus quite invisible to Vernon who couldn't see the magical inn at all, Michael calmly walked over to the fire, dropped a sickle in one jar and took a handful of floo powder from the other. Behind the bar Tom looked over and his eyes widened in recognition.

"The Hog's Head," Michael said and was gone before Tom could utter the words: "Harry Potter!"

.oOo.

The second year of Harry's new life had been even better than the first. He'd had to keep working hard at school as he began his GCSEs, but he was playing almost as hard and after some pleading with his parents had been allowed to join the school football team. The P.E. teacher had been delighted to find that the slim boy was not only quick on his feet but also had quick reflexes and appeared to be entirely fearless when it came to blocking the ball. With 'Michael' on the defense, it was almost impossible for anything but a tightly co-ordinated approach by several players to get a ball to the goal, and that was before the goalkeeper and other players took part. That year, the school won the county football championship and reached the quarterfinals of the national championship.

Harry's new family went to church pretty much every week, which was something Harry had never been allowed to do. Both of his new parents preached and Harry always enjoyed seeing that. And he made new friends among the children who went to the same church, some of whom went to the same school as him. They had all sorts of activities and one evening a week there was a youth cub where he could go to play table tennis and snooker and badminton.

.oOo.

Michael braked his bike as he saw a familiar head of bushy hair walking into the park that he was passing.

.oOo.

"I'm curious," the girl said smugly. "How wide did Granger have to spread her legs to lure you in?"

Michael blinked. "What makes me curious is how young you must have started spreading yours to gain such huge expertise in being a slut."

"W-why you!"

"I don't want to know _what_ you were doing," he added. "Although I'm sure that being as much of a pair bitches as you two are must involve _some_ form of bestiality. But really, when did you start your careers as tarts?" He looked them over dismissively, a look that he simply copied from Draco. "Cheap tarts, I would suppose."

.oOo.

Michael gave a theatrical gasp. "Back!" he cried, waving his wand at Crabbe and Goyle. "Back, ye demons of stupidity!"

Draco blinked. "Have you gone completely insane, Potter?" he asked somewhat incredulously.

"Seemed like most obvious explanation for your increasing moronity," Michael said, suddenly calm again. "I mean, after two years I would have thought you'd have noticed that I only stomp all over you when you annoy me. It's not like you're important enough for me to actually go out of my way to casually crush, so why else would you keep annoying me, unless you enjoy public humiliation and physical pain…" He looked at Draco suspiciously and then took a step back. "Are you some kind of pervert?" he asked, raising his wand to point between the suddenly spluttering Draco's eyes.

.oOo.

Hermione frowned and checked her watch. "We can't be there yet," she said.

"So why're we stopping?" Ron asked.

There was no doubt that that was what they were doing – the train was slowing more and more, the sound of pistons fading away and the weather beating against the window with even greater ferocity.

Ron was still on his feet and he opened the door to look out but closed it a moment later. "No one seems to have any idea," he reported quietly as the train came to a halt with one last jolt that resulted in distant thuds and bangs – probably the luggage falling off the racks. Michael winced and hoped none had landed on people. Unless it was Malfoy or one of his cronies.

Then every lamp died in a single moment and the compartment was plunged into darkness.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, trying to return to his seat. From Hermione's reaction, he'd managed to stand on her feet while making that attempt.

Michael pulled out his wand. "Lumos," he said and the tip lit, spilling a blue-white light through the compartment. "Might not be anything," he said thoughtfully, but then again it might be. "Wands out."

Hermione and Ron produced their wands and Ron squinted out of the window. "There's something moving out there," he said. "I think people are coming aboard..."

The door opened again and Neville stood in the doorway, illuminated by the wandlight. "Hi Hal, Hermione, Ron. D'you know what's going on?" he asked.

"'Lo, Neville. Not a clue," Michael said. "Ron saw something moving outside though – coming aboard."

Neville gulped, nervously.

"I'm going to go and ask the driver what's going on," Hermione's announced and went to the still open door only to pause. "Ginny?"

"Hermione?"

"What are you doing?"

"I was looking for Ron -"

"In here," Michael said. "Come in and sit down -"

There was movement from beside him and Michael turned to see Professor Lupin rising to his feet. "Quiet!" he said in a hoarse voice, the eyes in his tired face alert and wary. "Get inside, girls," the Professor ordered and Ginny and Hermiuone scurried into compartment. Michael's for his part, lowered his wand. Lupin seemed to know what was going on – but that didn't say anything about his benevolence.

Lupin took a step towards the open door but it was too late.

The corridor was dark and shadowy outside the compartment, but the light from Michael's wand revealed a figure in a dark cloak stood in the doorway. It was tall – almost as large as Hagrid, though not as broad – and the hood of the cloak completely hid it's face, which Michael was grateful for – the slimy grey hand, scabbed in places and glistening as if wet, suggested strongly that the face would not be one to win beauty contests.

The hand drew back beneath the cloak, as if ashamed to be seen and Michael wondered if it would ever show itself except when it needed to, for example, open a door. From beneath the deep hood came a deep breath, a drawn out growling sound that sounded, Michael suspected, more like a deathrattle than anything a living thing should sound like. Cold swept through the compartment and the light of the wand flickered and died as Michael gasped, icy needles stabbing at his innards.

.oOo.

Malfoy's pale eyes were shining with malice and they were fixed on Michael. He leaned forwards across the Slytherin table. "Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed, Potter?"

"Oh, I think it might require both hands," Michael replied casually.

There was a mean smile on Malfoy's face as he continued quietly, "Of course, if it was me, I'd have done something before now. I wouldn't be staying in school like a good boy, I'd be out there looking for him."

Michael chuckled. "Malfoy, if it were you then you'd be out of here alright, out of here and hiding in your daddy's robes. It is, after all, your answer to everything."

Malfoy went red.

"As a Ravenclaw however," Michael added, "I know perfectly well that your father doesn't like me, and wouldn't stand a chance in hell of fighting off Sirius Black… so I wouldn't waste my time. Anyway, I don't have to go looking for Black – I know where he's headed and when he gets there…" He smirked. "I'll be waiting."

.oOo.

"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?" roared Black. "HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM?"

"Harry," whispered Pettigrew, shuffling toward him, hands outstretched. "Harry, James wouldn't have wanted me killed... James would have understood, Harry... he would have shown me mercy..."

Black and Lupin strode forward and would have seized Pettigrew's shoulders but Michael raised his hand commandingly and they paused. "Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents," Black snarled. "This cringing bit of filth would have seen you die too, without turning a hair."

"I know," Michael said coldly. "He's probably correct that my father would have shown mercy. But I am not my father."

Pettigrew looked into Michael's cold green eyes and burst into tears. It was horrible to watch, like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor.

"Harry, Harry," he wept. "What could I have done? The Dark Lord... you have no idea... he has weapons you can't imagine... I was scared, Harry, I was never brave like Sirius and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen..."

"Do you really think that that makes a difference?" Michael asked, honestly curious at what curious twist of thought had convinced this fearful little man that he could excuse his actions.

"He - he was taking over everywhere!" gasped Pettigrew. "Wh-what was there to be gained by refusing him?"

"What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?" said Black, with a terrible fury in his face. "Only innocent lives, Peter!"

"You don't understand!" whined Pettigrew, turning to the man. "He would have killed me, Sirius!"

"He did kill you, Peter Pettigrew," Michael said, and a terrible sadness filled him. "Peter Pettigrew died and all that was left was Wormtail. Peter had friends, Wormtail had only an owner. Peter was a man, Wormtail was a rat." He ground his teeth and felt the little capsule break between them, the contents flowing down his throat like liquid fire. His face twisted but only Hermione knew what that expression meant, the others mistaking it for emotion. She covered her face with her hands and turned to the wall as power flowed through Michael's limbs.

Brushing aside Black and Lupin's protests he walked to the cringing man and put his arms around him, pinning him against his chest. "It's time for you to join Peter, Wormtail," he whispered and felt one last gasp before he twisted and felt bone and cartilage snap.

Black and Lupin both looked staggered as Michael dropped the dead body of Peter Pettigrew.

"Harry," Black gasped. "You… you killed him?"

Michael sighed. "Yeah." He took a few steps to the wall and rested one hand and most of his weight, upon it. "Give me a moment." The empty feeling that had nothing whatsoever to do with the potion receded slowly.

After a moment he turned again to look at them. "Before you start complaining," he said, "I suggest you think about what would happen to you if it was you who killed him. It's what you were thrown into Azkaban for, Sirius, do you really think Cornelius Fudge would care about where and when it happened? And there are laws about werewolves who kill people, Professor Lupin. It doesn't matter how or why."

Lupin was pale. "I don't reckon your parents would've wanted you to become a killer, Harry – just for us."

"Don't be daft," Michael said, and then sighed. "Besides it's a bit late. I crossed that line two years ago. Professor Quirell. He was after the Philosopher's Stone. Would have revived Voldemort with it. So I… stopped him. Forever."

.oOo.

Michael caught the copy of the Daily Prophet that Hermione thrust at him and unfolded it. Dominating the front cover were two pictures. The first was of Sirius Black, not laughing maniacally as had been on the previous occasion that Michael had seen him under a headline, but weary and jubilant as he stood between Remus Lupin and Cornelius Fudge. The second picture showed aurors carrying Peter Pettigrew's body out of Hogwarts.

SIRIUS BLACK EXONERATED read the headline and below it was a short column that gave the barest bones of the true story before directing readers to fuller explanations deeper inside the paper. The precise circumstances of Peter's death were fortunately not specified, only that he had died in a 'dramatic confrontation on the Hogwarts Grounds'.

"Well," Michael said at last. "I suppose that that means the Dementors are all gone then."

"Honestly Hal," Hermione snapped. "Is that all you can say?"

Michael sighed. "What would you rather I'd said?" he asked. "It seems to have worked out after a fashion." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not good with words, Hermione. You know that."

"Aren't you a bit more excited?" she asked. "Your godfather is free - the man who betrayed your parents is dead..." She looked at him and then sighed. "Are you feeling... guilty?"

"Not really," Michael said. "I suppose that should I regret it going the way that it did, but to be honest, I'm just glad that it's over. That he can't hurt anyone else."

"Well said," came a familiar voice from the doorway and Michael saw Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway of the Hospital Wing. "Peter walked a dark road for many years. From what Sirius has told me, I gather that his death was rather more merciful than that which Minister Fudge would doubtless have insisted upon."

Michael folded the newspaper and set it aside. "So," he said. "What happens now?"

Dumbledore took a seat facing Hermione across Michael's bed. "Perhaps first I should expand upon what has happened since your experience. You have slept the clock around under Madame Pomfrey's care and a great deal has happened."

"Sirius is at the Ministry of Magic, setting his affairs in order. He was reluctant to leave your side, but certain matters could not be delayed now that he is a free man again. He will return shortly - in time for dinner no doubt - and will be eager to speak to you under less trying circumstances."

"Remus is also at the Ministry, assisting Sirius, but will likewise return this evening. Sadly, I do not believe that he will be able to continue as Professor of Defence Against Dart Arts, but I have grown accustomed to requiring replacements for the role."

"Move Snape across," Michael suggested drily. "Any fate he suffers would be nothing but karma."

"Replacing Professor Snape would be far more difficult," Dumbledore replied. "Potions Masters are few and far between."

"Doubly so since he drives most of his students away from the subject by harassing them, fiddling their grades and refusing to let them into NEWTs," Michael observed. "I doubt that there are many Potions Masters younger than him - he drives off any potential competition."

"That is as maybe, Hal," Dumbledore said, firmly shelving the subject. "Severus has made a full recovery from his injuries and is no doubt brooding in his dungeons over injustices done. Miss Granger, as you may have surmised, was released from the Hospital Wing yesterday." He twinkled at Hermione. "I imagine that exaggerated stories of the night before last are in circulation among the students?"

At her nod, he chuckled. "Well, the truth will out, as your own actions have proven. In any event, this brings us to today. It would seem that you have a choice to make, Hal."

Michael blinked. "Indeed?"

"Hal!" Hermione protested. "Sirius is your godfather - now that he's out of prison he's your legal guardian, not your relatives."

"Oh," said Michael and then blinked. "Oh," he said again. That was... hmm, he wasn't quite sure how to respond to that little bombshell. It would be good indeed to be rid of the risk of being sent back to the Dursleys. But was he ready to give up the freedom that he'd spent three years fighting for?

"Well," he said at last. "I suppose that it's not a decision that needs to be made in a great hurry. Best that Sirius and I have a little chat about it, before we jump into anything."

.oOo.

Sirius looked awkwardly at Michael. "Well," he said, "I was thinking that since my name has been cleared, and since your parents' will made me your guardian, that you'd come and live with me."

Remus groaned. "I said to be subtle, Sirius," he griped.

The corners of Michael's mouth twitched. "For Sirius, that was pretty subtle," he commented. "he didn't say that I would come and live with him, he just said that he was thinking that I would."

"Does mean that you don't want to?" Sirius asked nervously.

Michael hesitated. "Well," he said after a moment's thought. "We can give it a try I guess. If it doesn't work out I can always go off on my own later on."

The expression on Sirius's face made it clear what he thought of it 'not working out'. Michael chuckled. "I'm kind of used to being on my own," he said dryly. "Looking after myself. Independence can be a hard thing to give up."

"Well," said Dumbledore. "I'm glad that that's been settled."

"Glad it's settled or glad you won't be chasing me all around the British Isles?" Michael asked sarcastically.

Dumbledore coughed. "A little of both, Hal. A little of both."

"Chasing Harry around the British Isles?" Sirius asked.

Remus chuckled. "There's quite the betting pool down in the staff room," he told his old friend. "Hal and Professor Dumbledore have been 'disagreeing' over where Hal spends his holidays every since his first Christmas."

"And they haven't found him yet," Ron declared. "Not until he wants to be found anyway."

Sirius's expression changed to one of surprise. "Harry..."

"Hal."

"Uh, yes, Hal. When you said you were used to being on your own..."

Michael shrugged. "Professor Dumbledore kept presenting me with the choice between Hogwarts and the Dursleys," he said. "I didn't like those choices so I went out and made new ones."

Sirius shook his head in disbelief. "You know Hal," he said, "You're making me feel quite inadequate. I was much older than you when I ran away from home and I only went to your Dad's family and stayed with them."

"It's not my fault that Gryffindors are underachievers," Michael deadpanned.

"I have to wonder though, Hal," Dumbledore said. "Would you mind explaining one part of your methods, now that there won't be an issue of you going to your guardian this summer? What did happen that first week last summer? The rest of that summer I had at least managed to make sure that you were somewhere in the British Isles."

Michael shrugged. "I spent the week sunning myself on a beach in the south of France," he replied causally. "Deadly boring although the view was nice."

"There are indeed many lovely landscapes in that part of the world," Dumbledore agreed.

"I'll say," Michael lied. "It was a nudist beach."

Remus Lupin collapsed laughing. Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black blinked and then began to laugh, one of them chuckling politely and the other howling with laughter. Hermione and Ron, for their parts, blushed furiously.

Michael winked at his friends and Ron began to laugh as well as he realised that once again, Hal had simply said something outrageous to wind the adults up. Hermione, faced with the same realisation, simply buried her head in her hands. She could imagine all too well the possibilities of well-intentioned British wizards trying to find one hormonal teenager in Muggle nudist beaches along the Mediterranean coasts, which they would be doing the moment Dumbledore's instruments stopped reporting Hal Potter as being within the British Isles. And she was quite sure that Hal would ensure that he left the British Isles for a while for that very reason - probably with not the least intention of going within a thousand miles of the south of France.

He had, after all, said that it had been boring and Hal hated nothing as much as being bored.

.oOo.

In a nondescript suburb of Sheffield a small cottage was set well back from the road. Until two months before it'd belonged to an old woman, but she had sold the place for a tidy sum, her neighbours said, and moved to live closer to her family.

It was a pretty typical street – houses paced closely side by side, with thick hedges to protect their privacy and long gardens behind them. The houses were single storey structures and thus it was quite difficult to tell what went on in them, since the hedges were too high to be looked over. All that was known of the new owner was that he was in his thirties and the guardian of a teenage boy. Occasionally they could be seen coming or going on the man's motorcycle but they did not appear to be interested in meeting the neighbours.

There was a good reason for this, of course. Sirius Black and his godson Harry Potter, were wizards – part of a magical society that existed alongside that of their muggle neighbours. Both were quite famous – one might even say 'infamous' and both had secrets. One of these secrets, Harry had kept from everyone for years now – quite a feat given that his school teachers included more than one very capable mind reader and that his new guardian was a veteran prankster more accustomed than most to looking 'underneath the underneath'.

By the way, if you walked in late, allow me to reiterate.

Three years ago, Harry Potter's body had been occupied by the mind of a quite ordinary boy a few years older than he. Michael, the new occupier of that body, had no idea how this had come to be or what had happened to the real Harry – although it was a matter that he'd given quite a bit of thought over the years. He had, however, found that life as the 'Boy-Who-Lived', child-hero of the wizarding world's rather insular mind-set due to yet more ill-explained events, did not give him a great deal of time to ponder these imponderables. Only a month ago had he managed, after much confusion, managed to defeat and kill the wizard who had betrayed Harry Potter's family to the Dark Lord Voldemort, clearing the name of Sirius Black, who had escaped from a supposedly inescapable prison where he had been confined for a decade in the mistaken belief that he was the traitor.

Since Sirius Black was also the godfather of Hal Potter, Hal had agreed rather warily to forego his usual game of hide and seek with the Headmaster (who thought that he should spend time with the Dursleys, rather than living on his own wherever the wind took him) and live with Sirius for the summer.

.oOo.

Michael raised his wand. "If you're not going to do something about this then take cover," he said flatly. Without pausing, he aimed at one of the masked wizards and started pounding him with Reductor charms. The wizard was surrounded by a shield of some kind and Michael saw it flickering under the impact of the curses.

A moment later, Ron moved up next to him and added his own curses to the barrage. "That's sick," he muttered between curses as he saw the smallest of the two children spinning like a top, far above the ground. His head was flopping around alarmingly.

"Yeah," agreed one of the twins, the two of them taking up position on Michael's other side and casting shields to block the curses beginning to be flung towards the boys by the masked wizards.

From behind the four of them, Michael heard Mr. Weasley shout: "We're going to help the Ministry! You lot - get into the woods, and stick together. I'll come and fetch you when we've sorted this out!"

"Bollocks to that!" Michael shouted back over his shoulder. "Curse the lot of them! No bloody hooligans are running me off in the middle of the night!"

"Hal!" protested Hermione's voice. "What if they fall?"

"Catch them then!" Michael snarled, then took a deep breath and resumed the rapid repeated curses he was flinging.

Bill and Charlie hesitated and then joined the line, standing beside the twin and letting lose their own charms.

"Dad, Percy!" Ron called. "Go get the Ministry organised, we'll look after the girls."

"I'll keep an eye on them Arthur," Sirius declared and stood off to one side, wand in hand but not yet casting anything as his dark eyes flickered across the campsite.

.oOo.

There was a feeling of anticipation in the air the evening that the other schools' prospective champions would arrive. The last class ended half an hour earlier than usual and all the students had to rush up into their towers (or down to the dungeons in the case of Slytherin House) to leave their schoolwork and put on their cloaks (partly because they would apparently be more presentable and partly because it was a trifle cold to be stood outside for a while)

In the entrance hall, the students were hustled into lines by the four Heads of House, ranked by House and Year. The entire chamber was a sea of black, pointed hats and black, somewhat weather-stained cloaks. Michael spotted Ron and Hermione and waved to them as he waited for Professor Flitwick, all but invisible in the crowd, to achieve satisfaction with their appearance. He saw Padma's sister getting scolded by McGonagall and fiddling about with her hair and rolled his eyes. The girl was a first-rate ditz.

One at a time the Houses filed out the door, down the steps and into a formation in front of the castle. Michael was left standing between Padma Patil and Li Su as Professor Flitwick had insisted upon alphabetical order by surname in Ravenclaw, although the other three Houses all seemed to have their own systems (or none at all in Gryffindor's case). The evening was cold and clear, the sun setting behind the mountains to the west and the moon already visible in the sky, clear and so bright that Michael could almost believe that if he reached out he would touch it.

"How do you think they'll get here?" Li Su asked quietly.

"I don't know," Padma admitted. "By train perhaps? What do you think, Hal?"

Michael shrugged, he was cold, bored and hungry – to his mind how the two schools chose to arrive was far less important than when they did so. "No idea," he replied. "Probably something flamboyant and dramatic: they'll want to underline their magical puissance or something like that."

"Aha!" called Dumbledore from his position near the back, alongside the other teachers. Michael half-turned to look at the white-bearded man. "Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

There were immediate shouts from various students as they looked for what had caught Dumbledore's eye, followed by a triumphant call by one of the older students, who pointed out over the Forbidden Forest at a large object that was hurtling towards Hogwarts.

"It's a dragon!" shrieked a first year girl.

"Don't be stupid!" a Gryffindor first year – Colin Creevy's little brother if Michael's eye didn't mistaken him – replied. "It's a flying house!"

Michael chuckled. "Look! Up in the sky," he exclaimed, sotto voice, eliciting a puzzled look from Padma and Li. "It's a bird!" Whatever it was, there was nothing birdlike about what was approaching. "It's a plane!" he added and Li's face cleared as she recognised what he was saying. After a dramatic pause, they spoke in unison: "It's Superman!"

Ravenclaw's careful order dissolved as every muggleborn and many halfblooded in earshot collapsed in helpless laughter while the rest of the house looked on in confusion, distracted as the object skimmed the treetops towards them. Eventually it became clear that the shape was a vast horse-drawn carriage – powder blue and easily the size of a house. The horses were all winged and sized to match the carriage – bigger than elephants in Michael's estimation.

Almost fifty horse hooves crashed down to earth in perfect unison and a moment later the carriage wheels also touched the ground, the entire vehicle bouncing alarmingly as the horses slowed and the entire assemblage eventually came to a halt behind the golden horses, only a few dozen yards away from the Hogwarts student body, a coat of arms (crossed wands and six stars) now visible emblazoned on the door, which sprang open to reveal a boy in pale blue robes, almost the same colour as the carriage.

.oOo.

"The Hogwarts champion," Dumbledore called, "is Cedric Diggory!"

Immediately every single Hufflepuff in the Great Hall jumped to their feet, stamping their feet on the stone floor and shouting the triumph of their House at the top of their voices. Cedric rose to his feet, grinning broadly, and walked down the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables towards the teachers' table and the door behind it. Michael started clapping and by the time that Cedric reached the door, most of Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and even Slytherin House were applauding the Hogwarts Champion.

It was several long moments before Dumbledore could make himself heard. "Excellent," he declared happily. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real -"

He broke off and his eyes widened, fixing on Goblet. Everyone in the room followed suit staring at the Goblet's flames, which had just turned crimson once more. Sparks were flying as another long flame launched upwards and a fourth piece of parchment was expelled from the ancient artefact.

Dumbledore caught the parchment automatically and stared at it for a long moment before clearing his throat and reading out the name on it.

"Harry Potter."

Michael, who had just drunk a mouthful of pumpkin juice, spat it out across the table. "What!?" he spluttered.

Around the Great Hall heads turned until everyone present was staring at him, a familiar but unwelcome event. The looks he was getting were divided between confused and annoyed. No one was applauding, which struck Michael as a mixed blessing – it wasn't a moment for applause in his opinion but the looks on their faces boded poorly for the reactions his fellow students.

Ignoring the movement of Professor Flitwick at the high table, he took another sip of his pumpkin juice and then rose to his feet. "When I find out who put my name in the goblet," he said in a clear voice that reached every corner of the room, "a pound of flesh doesn't _begin_ to describe what this will cost them." Then he sat down.

Professor Dumbledore, who had been stooped over to listen to Professor Flitwick, straightened. "Hal Potter!" he called again. "Hal! Up here, if you please!"

Michael turned his head and looked at Dumbledore for a moment. Morag gave him a little push and hissed "Go on." He rolled his eyes and stood again, stepping over the bench and sweeping his hair back out of his eyes as he looked around the Hall with suspicious, measuring eyes before setting off up the gap between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Everyone's eyes followed him and the whispering died down as he walked along the Hall to face the stares of all the teachers.

"Well... through the door, Hal," said Dumbledore, who wasn't sporting his usual twinkling eyes, much less a smile.

"What for?" Michael asked, folding his arms across his chest as he faced the high table. "I didn't put my name in the Goblet and even if I had, your own rules exclude me. I won't be seventeen for almost three years." Or about four months, depending on who's counting.

"Your name's come out of the Goblet, Harry," said Ludo Bagman. "I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage... It's down in the rules, you're obliged..."

"I rather think I'd like to see these rules," Michael said, fighting down his mounting fear and anger with an effort. "Binding magical contracts would tend to require at least implied consent – not just knowing my name. And I gave no such consent. Do you suppose the consequences would fall on me? Or upon the misbegotten wretch who's trying to entrap me?"

"You've been chosen to compete, Hal," Dumbledore said. "You have no choice."

"There is always a choice," Michael said firmly. "Some people just don't have the courage to pay the prices attached. I'll take my chances."

"That is as may be," the Headmaster said wearily. "Let us at least discuss this privately. We will join you shortly."

Michael shook his head in frustration and walked towards the door. Hagrid was at the end and Michael nodded a greeting to him. The large man looked utterly astonished by the events and stared back, unable to muster any of his usual greetings although the look in his eyes was at least worry rather than anger.

Opening the door, Michael walked into a small room lined by paintings on the walls and lit for the most part by the fire that roared in the fireplace opposite the door. The witches and wizards portrayed by the portraits began to whisper to each other as he walked in, but Michael was more interested in the living occupants of the room.

The three Champions were stood by the fire, backlit by its flames and looking somewhat larger than life. Of course, all three of them were rather larger than Michael. Krum brooded on one side of the fire while Fleur and Cedric stood at the other, the Hogwarts Champion looking into the flames. All three turned as the heard him enter the room, but Fleur was the first to speak.

"What is it?" she asked, throwing back her mane of silky silver hair. "Do zey want us back in ze hall?"

Michael shook his head. "There has been a bit of foul play," he said shortly. "The idi- the _judges_ will be here shortly."

The sound of footsteps came from behind him and Michael moved aside to let Ludo Bagman into the room. The ministry official reached over and caught Michael by the arm, pulling him forwards towards the other students. "Extraordinary!" he muttered loudly. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen... lady," he greeted them. "May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?"

"Hardly," Michael spat. "Get off of me!" He wrenched his arm away and looked at the others.

Victor Krum had straightened and his face had darkened as he looked at Michael. Cedric had a confused look on his face at the unexpected announcement but Fleur looked amused. "Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman," she said.

"You have an interesting sense of humour," Michael growled. "Some arsehole put my name in the cup and fiddled it to pick my name as well as yours. And certain idiots seem to think I'm going to go along with it."

"Your name just came out of the Goblet of Fire, Harry," Bagman declared. "It is, well, amazing, but it's quite out of our hands now."

"But 'e cannot compete. 'E is too young," Fleur protested.

Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and forced a smile down at Michael glowered up at him. "But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. Harry will just have to do the best he -"

Bagman's fatuous speculations were cut short when the door opened to admit Professor Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxine, Professor Flitwick, Professor Snape and Barty Crouch. Through the door Michael could hear Professor McGonagall dismissing the other students to return to their common rooms.

"Madame Maxime!" Fleur said immediately, approaching her headmistress to register her protest. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"

Michael snorted. "Excuse me?" he said. "'They'? I don't recall saying anything of the sort."

The headmistress of Beauxbatons was an impressive figure at any time and when she drew herself up to her full height as she did now (head scraping the unlit chandelier hanging from the roof) she was even more capable of dominating a room. "What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" she demanded.

At her side, Karkaroff was smiling but it was clearly masking considerable agitation on is part. "I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," he said. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions - or have I not read the rules carefully enough?" he laughed nastily.

"C'est impossible. Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore. Otherwise," Karkaroff declared, "We would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

Snape chose this matter to introduce his own poisonous commentary: "It's no one's fault but Potter's, Karkaroff," he said with malice dripping from every word. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he -"

KRAKA-THOOM!

Snape was cut off by an explosion of light and sound from the fire. Everyone jerked around to see Michael lowering his wand. "In the interests of getting this sorted _before_ I'm old enough that it wouldn't be an issue, why don't you run along and look after your House, Professor," he said. "I'm sure you can find a first year bullying the Slytherin Quidditch team by bruising their delicate little fists on his face if you look hard enough."

"Ten points from Ravenclaw," Snape snapped automatically.

Michael spat into the fire. "That for your points," he said. "You've nothing to contribute so get out."

"Professor Snape is -" Dumbledore began.

"Neither my head of House, nor Cedric's," Michael interrupted. "He is not an official of this pathetic tournament and his contribution to each and every conversation regarding me for the last three-and-a-half-years has been rather monotonous. I know perfectly well that you've hated me since the moment I was conceived," he told Snape. "And I'm beyond caring. Either put up, shut up or grow up. Your choice."

"You arrogant little brat -!" Snape began, voice rising dramatically.

"Thank you, Severus," Professor Dumbledore cut him off firmly although the Potions Professor still glared malevolently at Michael through his curtain of greasy black hair. "You can see to your House now." Without another word, Snape left, slamming the door behind him.

"The loss of points still stands, Hal," Dumbledore continued, now looking down at Michael, who met his eyes evenly. "Your comments did not show the respect that Professor Snape is due." He looked sad when Michael shrugged indifferently. "Now, to business. Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Hal?"

"No," Michael said flatly.

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?"

"No."

"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" Madame Maxime protested.

"And I had heard that the French were a courteous people," Michael told her. "It's so sad to be disillusioned."

The giant headmistress choked on her words, her face reddening.

"Hal," Dumbledore said reprovingly.

"Mr Potter could not have crossed the Age Line," said Professor Flitwick firmly. "With all due respect to his ability in charms, I doubt if anyone his age could manage to deceive it. I examined Professor Dumbledore's work myself and it was flawless."

"And yet his name came out of the Goblet," Karkaroff said smoothly. "Mr. Crouch... Mr. Bagman, you are our - er - objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman, who was wiping at his with a handkerchief, deferred to Crouch, who was standing in the shadows outside the circle of the firelight, the half darkness making him look much older than he had seemed earlier. When he spoke, however, his curt voice showed no sign of fatigue or age. "We must follow the rules," he declared. "And the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," said Bagman cheerily.

"I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," Karkaroff said, almost snarling. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," said Bagman. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out - it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament -"

"- in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from behind Michael. Turning his head he saw Mad-Eye Moody limp through the door from the Great Hall "You can't leave your champion now," the veteran Auror said. "He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

"Convenient? I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody." Karkaroff said disdainfully.

"Don't you? It's very simple, Karkaroff," Moody said softly. "Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!"

"More likely someone who wants me dead," Michael corrected her bleakly. "Anyone wanting to give Hogwarts a second contestant would have picked someone with better chance of winning. No, I suspect that this goes a long way beyond this idiotic game of yours."

Fleur Delacour stamped her foot. "Why do you call it foolish?" she exclaimed. "We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!"

"If you think your life is only worth a thousand galleons then I pity you," Michael said grimly. "I value mine a little higher. Which is why I'll not be participating."

A tense silence fell on the room. Ludo Bagman, whose face had grown more and more anxious as Moody and Karkaroff sparred, said: "Harry, you don't have a choice."

"You said there's a rulebook," said Michael. "I suppose that you have a copy. Let's see what this 'binding magical contract' is. Because if it's just whoever's name is dropped into it getting obligated then why not just drop Voldemort's name -" he broke off as most of the people in the room jumped and looked nervous. "Oh get _over_ yourselves. What are you?" he gibed. "Two-year olds? Anyway, why not just drop Voldemort's name into it and let him face the consequences of being entered into a game he didn't even know he was playing?"

"Wouldn't've worked," Moody grunted. "We'd need to know his real name – not the one he gave himself."

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle," Michael replied promptly. "Want me to show you his old school pictures?"

"How the devil would you know his name?" Karkaroff demanded.

Dumbledore coughed gently. "Mr. Potter is quite correct," he said. "Before he styled himself Lord Voldemort, he was indeed Thomas Riddle, an alumini of Hogwarts. A former Head Boy in fact." Turning to Michael, he added: "Unfortunately, it would not work because he is no longer a student at Hogwarts. The Goblet would not accept the name of anyone not a student."

"I could quit Hogwarts, I suppose," Michael suggested casually. "There are, after all, other schools I could study at."

"Er, no Hal. It's too late for that."

"Okay, give me a moment." Michael said and the nodded. "Well, fortunately there is a simple solution. You lot are the judges of the Tournament and you decide what the events are. So we toss a few coins to settle on a winner and then you can fire up the Goblet again and put the names of these three into it."

"I'm sorry, Hal," Dumbledore said. "The Goblet won't light again for five years."

Michael shrugged. "No one outside the room has to know that. You can hold all the events and give out the same prizes – what does it matter that the 'real' tournament was a few coins tossed in a backroom?"

Bagman looked astonished. "Oh I say," he gasped. "We can hardly do that!"

"The rules are clear," Mr. Crouch said. "However the situation arose, Hogwarts now has two champions."

"Bollocks," Michael snarled. He walked towards the door. "I've provided you with a clear out. If you chose not to use it then the responsibility is entirely yours. But it'll be a cold day in hell before I play the puppet."

.oOo.

The crowd of Slytherin students burst into mocking laughter and pressed the badges that they were wearing, all of which promptly announced POTTER STINKS. Michael felt his temper rising but the smug look on Malfoy's face told him that a show of temper was precisely what the other boy wanted..

"Oh very funny," Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were laughing harder than anyone, "really witty." Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn't laughing, but he wasn't sticking up for Michael either.

"Well, fifty percent right is pretty good for you, Draco," Michael said coolly. "How much for three of them? I certainly want to show my support for Cedric."

.oOo.

Colin's face went pink. "Professor, Mr. Bagman wants him," he said nervously. "All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs..."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Well if it's just the Champions that have to go, I guess I'll be finishing the lesson," he said drily. "Thanks for letting me know though, Colin. Hadn't you better go back to class?"

"No, no, Mr. Potter," Sprout said firmly. "If you've been sent for then you'll have to go. Leave your bags here, you can finish up later."

Michael shook his head. "I was rather under the impression I'd made this clear already," he said irritably. "I don't play the damnfool game of house points and damned if I'll go along with this Triwizard's nonsense. So unless you plan to manhandle me…" he trailed off, with a challenging look at Professor Sprout. Then he grinned when she did nothing. "I didn't think so."

Terry groaned. "Here we go again… another Hal-shaped hole in our House Points," he said resignedly.

.oOo.

Only half an hour later, Ludo Bagman bounded into the greenhouse, an unfamiliar wizard and witch trailing behind him. He looked around, then pointed right at Michael. "Ah, there he is. Champion number four! Come here Harry... nothing to worry about, our message must have gone astray… it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the Champions and judges will be here in a moment -"

Michael finished carefully cutting a fruit from the vine he was working on and deposited it gently in the basket at his feet. "The message got here," he said, not wanting to get Colin into trouble. "I don't know why you sent it, but it did reach me."

"Harry, Harry," Bagman said encouragingly, "We have to check that your wand is fully functional, no problems, you know, as it'll be your most important tools in the tasks ahead."

"I do recall mentioning a time or two that I won't be participating in your silly game," Michael replied firmly and edged along the vine to the next fruit. "So you won't need to weigh my wand, will you?"

"Harry, for your own good you _must_ compete," Bagman insisted, shooting a nervous look at the woman behind him. "The magical contract is quite binding and the consequences of your refusal must already be causing you great pain."

"Not a bit of it," Michael replied. "I suppose that I must have been right all along – I wonder what's happening to the idiot who put my name in. With a bit of luck they'll be in great pain right now." Then he frowned. "That's an interesting thought," he mused. "Whoever put my name didn't know me too well – they called me Harry, just like you do. Anyone who knew me would know I don't call myself Harry."

"What do you call yourself, Mr Potter?" asked the woman. She was an odd looking witch, her hair elaborately set in artificial curls that didn't suit her heavy-jawed face at all. Her spectacles were jewelled, her robes magenta and her crimson fingernails were at least two inches long. She reminded Michael of Dame Edna more than anything and he wondered absently if she was actually a he, like the famous Australian.

"This is Rita Skeeter," Bagman explained. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet..."

"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Skeeter said, looking at Michael with a hungry look in her eyes. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?" she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Michael, who clipped off another fruit and reached for a loose section of the vine. "The youngest champion, you know... to add a bit of color?"

"Certainly!" Bagman exclaimed.

"Not," Michael said. "I'm in the middle of class – go away." He turned back to the vines and twisted the vine carefully to reveal another fruit.

"Don't be like that, Harry," said Rita Skeeter chidingly from behind him and she seized his upper arm with a strong grip, pulling him back. Then she halted and gulped as the blades of Michael's clippers closed gently around one scarlet-taloned finger, not closed yet but the threat was implicit.

"You're not terribly bright, are you?" Michael said. "Physical contact without permission from myself or my guardians is a form of assault, and you just did it in front of a dozen witnesses. Now get your hand off me and _maybe_ I won't press charges."

Rita opened her grip slowly, her face purple as Michael removed the clippers to let her withdraw her hand. The look in her eyes made it clear that she was not going to let the matter rest. "Now then," Michael said amicably. "Are you going to stop bothering me? Or shall we discuss invasion of privacy? Oddly enough I had cause to look up the laws on that a couple of years ago."

"I'm sure that the other champions will have great deal to say, Potter," Rita Skeeter said angrily. "Your entry into the Tournament was very irregular after all."

Michael smiled thinly although his guts were churning. "Any idiot can go through life without making enemies," he said. "I've faced down Voldemort, do you really think that your poison pen frightens me?"

Before the reporter could reply, the door to the greenhouse opened again, this time to admit Albus Dumbledore. His eyes had not regained the twinkle that Michael had seen in previous years, instead they were full of worry. Trailing behind him were a fuming Madame Maxine and Professor Karkaroff, along with Mr. Crouch, Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, Cedric Diggory and, surprisingly, Mr. Ollivander – the wandmaker from whose shop in Diagon Alley Michael had bought his wand, before he first came to Hogwarts.

"I see that you're still here, Hal," Dumbledore said, then turned to Professor Sprout, who had been watching the little tableau helplessly. "I'm very sorry to interrupt your lesson, Pomona," he said. "We sent a messenger to summon Hal, but he seems to have gone astray."

"Mr. Creevy delivered his message," Professor Sprout advised him tersely. "Mr. Potter declined to respond."

Dumbledore turned sad eyes upon Hal. "The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, Hal," he announced. "It cannot take place if one of our champions is not present."

Michael's eyes narrowed and he buried the blades of his clippers deep in the vine he'd been working on, an action that would certainly cost him points when the class was graded. Rising to his feet, he swept his gaze across the little group. "Well, you appear to have all three of them," he said in a mild voice. "What's the problem?"

"You arrogant little snot," Karkaroff snarled, oblivious to the fact that Rita Skeeter had taken out a piece of parchment from her handbag and was scribbling furiously upon it. "You weasel your way into the tournament and now you're actively trying to destroy it!"

"I don't know what you mean, Professor," Michael replied, his voice betraying the fact that his patience was worn thin. "I have told every one of you that I am not one of your Champions. You yourself have disputed the suggestion that I am, which might be one of the few things that we can agree upon. So I've hardly weaselled my way into anything, and my actions have no bearing on the tournament since it is nothing to do with me."

"Hal," Dumbledore said wearily. "Why does everything have to be a battle with you?"

"Largely because you insist on opposing me on most things," Michael pointed out. "Now shoo. You're disrupting class."

.oOo.

The arrival of the Daily Prophet at breakfast one morning only added to the levels of insanity that seemed to be raging around Hogwarts about the tournament. The Prophet included a very large piece on the Triwizard Tournament and Harry Potter, a 'sullen and argumentative youngster, prone to tantrums and threatening behavior, with no respect for adult authority' had a major role. Flattering pictures of Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum backed up a story that portrayed them as the honorable champions representing their schools while 'Harry Potter' was the young and spoilt brat trying to destroy the entire tournament in a fit of pique.

If Michael had read about such a ridiculous piece of yellow journalism in a novel then he would have been entertained, and perhaps a little irritated on behalf of the victims. As it was, he was grimly furious about the whole manner, although on rereading the piece it was clear that Rita Skeeter had been very careful not to write anything that he might be able to take legal exception to – everything was an opinion, or the rephrased testimony of somone at the school.

What was particularly annoying was that he wasn't the only one caught in the mess – Rita had transformed Ron into a 'hulking crony' not too different from Crabbe or Goyle, and Hermione was apparently some sort of torrid love interest of one or both of them.

.oOo.

"The Yule Ball is approaching - a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above - although you may invite a younger student if you wish -"

Padma Patil and Mandy Brocklehurst promptly bagan to giggle and Mandy leant forwards to whisper something to Lisa Turpin, who was sitting in front of the pair. The professor ignored them and continued, "Dress robes will be worn, and the ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then -" and she stared around the class disapprovingly. "The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to - er - let our hair down, but that does NOT mean," Professor McGonagall went on, "that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a student embarrasses the school in any way."

The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders.

"Potter - a word, if you please," Professor McGonagall called above the noise.

Michael finished packing away his notes and then seated himself on top of the desk opposite the teacher's desk, looking expectantly Professor McGonagall. She until the rest of the class had gone, and then said, "Potter, the champions and their partners traditionally open the ball."

Michael looked at her blankly. When it became evident that this was all she intended to say for the moment, he nodded encouragingly. Nothing. "And?" he asked, drawing out the word questioningly.

"And what, Mr. Potter?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Michael asked. "I'm not a champion, I can't dance to save my life and I very likely won't bother to attend the Ball at all."

"You are a Hogwarts champion and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school," McGonagall said firmly.

Michael blinked. "I rather thought I'd made myself clear," he said in a puzzled voice. "I'm no such thing and I shall not."

"This is a tradition and part of the competition," Professor McGonagall said coldly. "You have no choice in this, Mr. Potter. Get yourself a partner and while you're at it get rid of your childish attitude."

"But I like my attitude," Michael protested. "It keeps me from falling prey to the delusions that seem to afflict every adult wizard I've ever met."

McGonagall stared at him and both were reminded of a similar occasion not yet three years in the past. "Mr. Potter," she said at last, her voice firm. "We are endeavouring to save your magic and probably your life. A degree of co-operation on your part is called for."

Michael shook his head wearily. "Is there anything else, Professor?"

Minerva McGonagall sighed. "No, Mr. Potter."

After Michael was gone, the Deputy Headmistress rested her face on her hands. "Heaven help Hogwarts if his children continue the trend," she muttered. James Potter had caused havoc more often than his son but never to such a degree. If Hal had children that were worse than he himself then she supposed that it would be time to retire.

.oOo.

It was only the next day that a third-year Hufflepuff that Michael didn't even know the name of approached him and rather nervously asked him if he would go to the Ball with her. Rather taken aback, Michael hesitated and then thanked her before explained he had no plans to attend at all although he assured her that he was very flattered that she'd approached him. Word of his intentions apparently hadn't gotten around because the day after that he was asked out by two more girls, a second year Ravenclaw (Lisa Turpin's little sister Lydia) and a fifth-year Gryffindor (who was rather determined and seemed to take even his most diplomatic refusals quite hard).

Ron found the latter immensely amusing. "She was quite good looking," he pointed out with a grin.

"Why don't you ask her then?" Michael pointed out reasonably, which shut Ron up immediately.

.oOo.

Michael had barely reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room when Ron crashed out of them, wearing a rather fantastic set of dress robes. They were mostly black, slashed with a subdued plaid along the upper arms, and a sleeveless white overrobe that emphasised Ron's broad shoulders. The monochrome outfit set off his red hair quite well.

"Mate!" Ron yelped. "These are great – where did you get them!"

Michael grinned. "I made them," he said. "Just a little hobby of mine."

.oOo.

Michael was sitting in the Ravenclaw common room, getting solidly trounced at wizard's chess by Lydia Turpin, when Flitwick entered the room. The second year Ravenclaw hadn't managed to get a date at all to the Ball and wasn't old enough to attend anyway, so she'd been moping around the common room and feeling rather left out until Michael invited her to join him in a game. It wasn't until partway through the second game that he'd found out that her parents competed regularly in national Chess tournaments and that she'd practically grown up playing the game (albeit the muggle version) whereas Michael only played occasionally and had never taken it very seriously.

He was just tipping over his king for the third time when the tiny professor scurried into the common room and looked around a little frantically before seeing Michael. "Mr Potter," he snapped, somewhat starchily. "What are you doing?"

"Losing at chess," Michael replied somewhat absently. "Why?"

"Didn't Minerva tell you?" Professor Flitwick said incredulously. "You're supposed to be opening the dancing. Why aren't you down in the Hall? Get your dress robes on, immediately."

"These _are_ my dress robes," Michael replied, passing Lydia the black pieces and setting up his own white pieces again. The second year had shrunk back into her chair and was trying to stay out of the way of the 'conversation'. "Or to put it another way, the only robes I have other than my school uniform."

Flitwick blinked and looked at Michael's clothes. Rather than the elaborate robes of wizarding fashion, Michael was wearing a vaguely japanese outfit – a shirt-like robe on his upper body, trousers that more closely resembled a divided skirt on his lower body and a light, sleeveless robe of Ravenclaw blue over the black of rest of his clothes. Light sandals were on his feet, clearly visible below the cuffs of his 'robes'. "Alright," he said. "Unconventional, but they'll do. Now come on."

"Why?" Michael asked reasonably. "I'm very comfortable where I am. It's a cosy little spot and the company is excellent."

"You have an obligation -"

"Don't," interrupted Michael in an irritated voice. "For the record," he said flatly, "Professor McGonagall made a distinct point of telling me about the Ball and what she expected me to do. I told her then and I tell you now, that I'm not interested in playing your…" he hesitated, "foolish… game."

"Mister Potter… Hal…" Filius stumbled. "You've been arguing persistently that you are right and that every wizarding authority, and I can tell you that Professor Dumbledore has consulted dozens of experts to check the situation, is wrong. Why are you so convinced that your nomination is invalid?"

Michael shrugged. "Originally I wasn't," he said. "There was a slight degree of doubt, although I kept it close to my chest. However, once I followed the advice of the Hogwarts motto and didn't trifle with a dragon, the lack of magical retribution made it clear that I had been correct."

"And what if you had died?"

"Then I would have died."

"Just that?"

"No. Now that you mention it I would have died honorably standing against an injustice. I would have died upholding Cedric's rightful place as the Hogwarts Champion – something that you are bound and determined to slight. That matters to me, Professor Flitwick. Don't like him much, mind you, but right is right and he was chosen."

Flitwick shook his head. "That code will kill you, Hal, unless you learn to bend."

"Life kills all of us, Professor."

.oOo.

Michael jerked awake as someone prodded him painfully in the side. "Ow!" he yelped. "Get off!"

"Harry Potter must wake up, sir!" came a familiar voice.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," Michael muttered. "Just quit poking at me."

He looked around bleary eyed and then took his glasses when they were offered to him. "Dobby?" he said in surprise as he saw who it was that had been poking at him. The little House Elf was standing on the bed, a frantic look on his face.

"Harry Potter needs to hurry!" squeaked Dobby. "The second task starts in ten minutes, and Harry Potter -"

"That's nice..." Michael groaned and rolled over. "Nothing to do with me though."

Dobby caught hold of Michael's pyjama's and tugged on them. "You is supposed to be down by the lake with the other champions, sir!"

Michael groaned and sat up in the bed. "I'm not a champion, Dobby," he said tiredly. "I'm not going to play their little game – Hell, I don't even know what the task is -"

"Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Lydidy -"

"Find my what?" Michael asked, curious despite himself.

"- and take his Lydidy back from the merpeople!"

"What's a Lydidy?"

Dobby blushed and shuffled his feet. "Your, your…" he hesitated and then blushed. "The witch Harry Potter sir went to the ball with."

Michael looked puzzled. "The ball? I didn't go to the ball, I stayed in the common room and…" His face paled. "He _wouldn't_!"

"The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!" squeaked Dobby. "'But past an hour -'"

"Past an hour?" Michael asked, scrabbling for his wand.

"- 'the prospect's black,'" Dobby recited in a sing-song voice. "'Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.'"

Wand in hand, Michael dashed to the window. "Point me Lydia Turpin," he snapped, balancing the wand on a finger-tip. The length of wood spun for a moment and then pointed down and out of the window. Sighting down it. Michael could see the lake. "Sonofabitch," he snarled.

"You has to eat this, sir!" squeaked the elf, and he put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a ball of what looked like slimy, grayish-green rat tails. "Right before you go into the lake, sir - gillyweed!"

"Gillyweed?" Michael muttered, staring at the gillyweed, and then slapped his forehead. "Of course – to breathe underwater!"

He turned to his bags and grabbed a pair of shorts. "Dobby, I need a favor," he said. "And it's a big one."

"Dobby will do anything for the great Harry Potter," the elf announced.

"I need a broom," Michael said, stripping off his pyjamas. "A good one. Do you think you could get me Malfoy's?"

"Harry Potter does ask silly questions," Dobby said scoldingly.

"Sorry," Michael said. "Only thinking."

"Of course Dobby can," Dobby said and popped away, returning a moment later with the Nimbus 2001 held in both hands.

"What would I do without you?" Michael asked with a grin as he threaded a belt around the shorts' waistband and hung his potions pouch from it.

"All sorts of silly things," Dobby said and then clapped both hands across his mouth.

Michael burst out laughing. "You're probably right," he admitted. "Thanks Dobby." Then his eyes hardened. "Right then." He took the broomstick and went to the window. "I hate these things," he muttered and perched himself on it before zooming out of the window and into the air.

As he swooped down towards the lake edge he saw that the seats from the previous task had been moved to the Far bank of the lake and that they were packed full of wizards and witches. On the near side of the lake, a gold draped table had been set up and the judges were sat at it, the three champions standing beside them. As they spotted Harry approaching, the crowd began to babble and point, some of them breaking into applause.

Michael shivered in the cold spring air and cast a warming charm on himself before descending to hover the broom by the table. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could say a word, he was interrupted.

"Where have you been?" said Ron's brother Percy. The red-headed young man was sitting in the seat supposedly to be occupied by Bartie Crouch. "The task's about to start!"

"Now, now, Percy!" said Ludo Bagman, who was looking terribly happy about something. "Let him catch his breath!"

Between the two, Dumbledore was smiling at Michael but Karkaroff and Madame Maxine both looking unhappy. Michael swept them with an icy glare over the rim of his glasses. "You're all going to burn in hell for this," he snarled. "Every last one of you."

Dumbledore and Bagman merely looked taken aback but the other three were spluttering with indignation. Before any of them could do anything Michael lowered the nose of the broom and headed out over the lake. "Well?" he asked the other three students as he passed them. "Are you coming?"

Once he was out over the water, he took his wand out of his belt and used the same charm as before, ignoring the shouts from both sides of the water as he searched out Lydia's precise location. Only when the wand pointed directly downwards – indicating that he was right above the little Ravenclaw – did he look around. The three champions were all gone, presumably carrying out their own searches underwater. Ludo Bagman was engrossed in a fierce argument with Percy Weasley and Madam Maxine, while Dumbledore and Karkaroff stared unhappily at Michael. With a snort, Michael gave them two fingers and pulled the gillyweed out of his pouch and began to chew methodically on it.

For a moment he worried that it was having no effect, but then there was a piercing pain from the sides fo his neck and he found himself struggling to breathe. His lungs didn't seem to be working and with a hand he could feel a large slit below one ear, a gill! Without pausing to check the other side, Michael lowered the nose of his purloined broom and plunged down into the water.

Suddenly he could breathe again, but not with his mouth. Instead the water flowed through his gills and he could feel the air, or at least the oxygen, being filtered from it to sustain him. His fingers and toes felt odd and he looked at them to discover that they were now webbed. "Well," he muttered to himself. "I hope this wears off once I'm out of the water."

He couldn't see very far through the dark water – all he could do was follow his wand's direction down towards the bed of the lake. It took several minutes – the broom couldn't carry him anything like as fast through water as it could through the air – but he eventually heard singing from ahead, in the haunting tones of the merfolk.

"An hour long you'll have to look,

And to recover what we took..."

Michael paused and reached into his bag again, pulling out a small bottle and lighting his wand to check that he had the right one. The bottle had the right label and he lowered his wand. Drinking underwater would be tricky, he realised. Fortunately the potion was heavier than water, which would help. Holding the bottle carefully, he pulled the cork and capped the neck immediately with his finger, hoping to minimise the mixing of potion with lake water. Then he took a deep breath and thrust the neck and his thumb into his mouth before removing his thumb and taking a deep gulp.

There was a familiar burning taste in his mouth and he shook from head to toe as the potion took effect and power flooded through his limbs. With what he was sure was a nasty smile on his face, Michael began to descend into the Merpeople's village.

He appeared to be coming down in the middle of a village square or at least of the merpeople equivalent. There was an odd statue of a merman in the middle of the square and four people were tied to it's tail with thick ropes of weed. Around the square were a huge crowd of merfolk, although none were very close to the statue. A choir like arrangement were the source of the singing that Michael could hear.

As he came closer, Michael saw that the people tied to the statue were Cho Chang, Ravenclaw's seeker; a little girl who bore an unmistakeable resemblance to Fleur Delacourt; Hermione Granger; and, yes, Lydia Turpin. All four girls seemed to be asleep and streams of bubbles came from their mouths, presumably part of whatever charm kept them breathing under water. Michael frowned. From what he recalled of the gossip around him after the Yule Ball, Cho had gone to the ball with Cedric Diggory and Hermione had gone with Viktor Krum. Fleur had attended with Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, but he supposed that the seventh year would be assumed more competent than his champion. Or perhaps Fleur simply wasn't that taken with him.

"The whole bloody ball was a set up," Michael growled and heads turned around the square as the merfolk spotted him approaching. He would not have been surprised at that point if they had all charged at him with those terribly sharp looking spears but instead they seemed content to watch as he swooped down upon the four hostages.

For a moment he examined the thick ropes and then caught hold of one at random and contemptuously snapped it with his bare hands. There was a surprised muttering from the merpeople – the rope had been as thick as one of Michael's thumbs – but he ignored them and moved onto the next rope. In a matter of moments he had Lydia free and he used one length of the rope to secure her to his borrowed broom. Then he looked at the stone again and swam over to the little blonde girl.

"Might as well do this properly," he said softly, but even as he reached for the ropes securing her, strong hands caught hold of him and began to pull him away from the child. For all his strength, he had nothing to secure himself as half a dozen mermen dragged him backwards. "You take your own hostage," said a particularly tall merman, distinguishable by his long green beard and the shark fangs that he wore on a crude necklace. "Leave the others…"

Whatever else he proposed to say was lost as Michael, who had relaxed enough for the other mermen to lower their guard, seized hold of the Merman by his beard and shook him vigorously by it. The merman screeched something incoherent and his companions tried to put a halt to the indignity that Michael was imposing. They regretted their decision almost immediately as Michael whirled the much larger merman around and used him like a flail to batter the little squad aside.

Leaving them dazed, Michael swam swiftly for the broom again and hurled himself towards the rock again. This time he took no chances, grabbing hold of a great bundle of the ropes and bracing his feet against statue. For a moment he was afraid that even the strength granted by his magic potion would not be sufficient to defeat the sturdy ropes, but one by one they popped and came loose.

Then he had to stop again because two mermen, presumably braver or more foolish than the others, were trying to drag him away.

Michael paused, took a long, deep breath, and then lashed out with a perfectly executed uppercut that sent one of them hurtling upwards and away. He looked at the other merman and slowly his lips curled into a feral smile.

The merman shrank back.

.oOo.

Quite some distance above Michael and off towards Hogwarts, the waters parted and dazed looking Merman exploded up out of them, soaring in a parabolic arc that slammed him brutally into the waters again, just short of the cliff that the castle sat upon.

"My word!" shouted Bagman from the judge's table. "There certainly seems to be some action going on down there!"

Dumbledore, on the other hand, paled slightly. It was going to take a great deal of effort to make peace with the merfolk again if the younger Hogwarts champion was up to what the Professor rather thought he might be up to. "Oh dear," he said mildly. "I do wish that Hal would listen to instructions for once."

Beside him, Percy Weasley shook his head. In his estimation, there was no likelihood of the Headmaster's wish ever being granted.

.oOo.

Michael's head broke through the water and he gasped for breath. Above him, dangling from the damp-looking broomstick a few feet above the water in the crude harness, were the four girls, all damp and bedraggled and looking around themselves with puzzled eyes. Then, suddenly, the charms on the broom simply failed – due either to the load or to having never been intended for submerisible operations – and there were four high-pitched shrieks followed by four splashes. Waves of water doused Michael and it was a moment before he managed to push wet hair out of his face and look around.

Cho… Hermione… Lydia…

…

Spitting a curse, Michael dived down into the water. The gillyweed might have worn off but the strength potion hadn't, so he was able to easily propel him down towards the French girl, who was being towed downwards by a pair of angry looking mermen. A dozen or so more had been approaching but they reversed course as soon as they saw Michael swimming towards them. The mermen holding the frantic child released her and fled in a panic as a few powerful strokes brought him into range of them.

Seizing hold of the girl, Michael reversed course and quickly pulled his head above the water, hoisting her up so that she could breathe again.

"HAL!" he heard someone scream from behind him and shortly found himself treading water with not only a coughing little French girl in his arms but also a young Ravenclaw clinging to one shoulder and a slightly older Gryffindor treading water so close that he could feel the water swirling around his own legs as she kicked. Cho Chang was a few yards away, looking around with a puzzled expression on her face. Far away, on the edge of the water, the crowd was going wild but Michael didn't care about that.

"What happened?" Hermione demanded. "Are you hurt? Where are the other champions?"

"Didn't see them," Michael replied. "We can talk about it on the shore, I don't think the merfolk are very happy with me for some reason."

Hermione groaned. "What did you do?" she asked.

"Me?" Michael said innocently.

"I know you too well," Hermione replied drily and looked at the two younger girls. "He's a very nice boy," she told them, "but he's not always a very good boy."

"Enough talking," Michael growled. "Can you two swim?"

Lydia nodded but Fleur's sister just gave him a blank look. With a sigh, he nudged Lisa. "Okay, stay close to Hermione and Cho," he advised. Then he called on long ago life-saver classes to start swimming towards the shore on his back, kicking vigorously as the potion began to wear off and holding the girl against his chest, face up. Past her silver-blonde hair he could see the other girls following him.

By the time that the little group reached the shore, the other three champions had returned and Madam Pomfrey was fussing over them with towels, thick blankets and several mugs of some steaming beverage. Fleur broke away from her care the moment she saw Michael stand up in the water, holding the little girl. Breaking past Madame Maxine's attempt to restrain her, she charged down the bank eyes blazing. Her Veela good looks should have been marred somewhat by her bedraggled hair and the miscellaneous scrapes she had suffered but instead she simply looked magnificent.

"You foolish pig'eaded boy!" she shrieked, snatching her startled sister away from Michael. "Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Are you 'urt?" she exclaimed. "I thought… I thought…"

Michael took a deep breath and turned around to help the other girls up the bank to where Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman pulled them up and hustled them towards Madame Pomfrey and, in the case of two of them, towards their Champions. Michael ignored the hands offered to him by the two judges, scrambling up and onto the grass on his own. Bagman tried to seize Michael's hand to shake it but Michael refused to take the proffered hand, instead glaring at Dumbledore who was looking out over the lake. Merfolk had broken the surface in large numbers and a particularly grand example, surrounded by a host of warriors, was approaching the shore.

"Oh dear," Dumbledore sighed. "What in the world did you do down there, Hal?"

Michael shook his head, scattering droplets of water all around them. "What do you think I did down there?" he snorted. "You stuck little Lydia down there to blackmail me into playing your stupid game. Do you really think I'd have let anything get in my way?"

"Miss Turpin was perfectly happy to assist you in the Task, Hal," Dumbeldore said calmly.

"You could soft-talk the Pope into throwing an orgy, you silver-tongued devil," Michael replied coldly. "It doesn't surprise me in the least that you could talk a little girl into risking her life for your pathetic political games."

"For you, Hal," the old man insisted. "I cannot let you risk your magic – I would never have let her drown!"

Albus Dumbledore was, despite his years, still among the finest duellists in the world. And while the sheer strength of his magic and breadth of his knowledge played a major role in his skills, his reflexes remained superb. Thus, he narrowly avoided having his beard caught when Michael snatched for it. But he did miss the fact that Michael's wand was in his other hand, and his aging ears did not catch three softly-uttered syllables, only their results.

"So you won't risk my magic – even though it is my magic to risk?" Michael spat, his words booming across the lake under the influence of the Sonorus charm. "But you have no such compunction in risking my life, do you? Nor the lives of others. You expect me to trust you? Your reckless arrogance has come within inches of killing half the school every year I've been here, not to mention that it put an innocent man in Azkaban for twelve - fucking – years. Trust you? I'll never make that mistake again, you honourless son of a bitch!"

"Hal," Dumbledore said firmly. "Can you not see? You didn't listen to me, you didn't heed what the task was and now you have driven the merfolk to such anger against the wizarding world as I have never seen in them."

"You didn't listen to me when I told you I was not bound by the Goblet," Michael replied with equal firmness. "You didn't heed when I told you a way to lift those bonds even if they had applied. And now you are using a _child_ as a _hostage_ to try _enslave_ me."

The old headmaster flinched at each cruelly emphasised word.

.oOo.

As he passed Cedric's father, the man looked around and spotted him. "There you are, are you?" he said, a trifle smugly in Michael's opinion. "Bet you're not feeling quite as full of yourself now Cedric's caught you up on points, are you?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Cedric, for the love of God would you explain to your father that I'm not in the blasted tournament. Maybe he'll listen to you – sure as hell no one's been listening to me!" he added bitterly.

"Ignore him," said Cedric in a low voice that only Michael could hear. He directed a frown at his father. "He's been angry ever since Rita Skeeter's article about the Triwizard Tournament - you know, when she made out you were trying to wreck the tournament. He thinks you were trying to force me out of the tournament."

"Didn't bother to correct her, though, did he?" the older Diggory said loudly.

Michael spat on the floor. "Dogs piss on lamp posts," he snorted. "And reporters make up fairy tales. What makes you think she cares one whit for the truth? The only thing that amazes me is that anyone believes a word that comes out of her poison pen."

Mrs Weasley went a little red but didn't say anything under Michael's knowing stare.

The boy turned back to Amos Diggory. "If you want to vent your spite," he finished scornfully, "take it out on the bitch who's been spreading lies rather than one of the few people who agrees that Cedric's the one and only champion of Hogwarts."

.oOo.

Bagman blew the whistle and Michael saw Cedric hurry forward into the maze. For his part, Michael didn't bother to rush. He was, after all, in no hurry. He might want the pictures of

Harry's family back – it would be suspicious in the extreme for him not to go after them – but there was no need to make more of a fuss than he had to.

About fifty yards in, Cedric took a turn to the right and vanished from sight.

A large yellow coat of arms, presumably representing the Hufflepuff seeker, marked his location. Michael waited patiently until he saw that Cedric was well clear of what he intended to do and then ambled forwards, raising his wand casually and summoning a strong, steady wind. With that established, he pulled out a vial from his belt and flipped off the cap, taking care not to inhale the fumes that began to slowly rise from it.

Instead, he waved it gently in the wind he had created and let the force of the moving air carry the fumes into the hedges. For a moment, it seemed that nothing was happening, and then a section of hedge just ahead of where Cedric had turned withered and died.

A moment later, so did the next line of hedge and Michael began to walk slowly towards the gap, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief and then wrapping his scarf around that part of his head to keep the improvised filter in place.

.oOo.

"Why can't he be back?" Michael asked coldly.

"He just can't be, Mr Potter," Fudge insisted. "It's unthinkable! Impossible!"

"Not impossible," Michael said grimly. "Inevitable. Have you ever met him?"

Fudge shivered and clutched at his hat. "Fortunately not," he said.

"I met him in my first year," said Michael quietly. "I told Dumbledore then, told him that Voldemort hadn't given up. I'm telling you now that he has found a way to restore himself, to summon his old followers." His face was quiet. "Why are you so intent on keeping the Dementors as guards at Azkaban?"

"There is no doubt as to their loyalty to the Ministry," Fudge said.

"Difficult to prove either way," Michael said. "However, you haven't considered the other side of the argument. There have been two confirmed escapes from Azkaban now - first Black and now we find that Crouch was freed years ago. Even if the Dementors are as faifthful as you say, they evidently aren't competent for the task."

.oOo.

"But I can't just tell the public that He-Who-Must-Be-Named has returned," Fudge wailed.

"Of course not," Michael agreed promptly. "There would be a panic."

There was a roomwide blink.

"But-but-but-" Fudge muttered.

"You tell them that someone purporting to Voldemort is trying to revive the Death Eaters," Michael explained reasonably. "Doubtlessly with the goal of overthrowing the Ministry and seizing power." He thought that reminding Fudge of what he stood to lose might be advisable.

"There's no need for declaring an emergency," he added. "Merely a few well-thought out precautionary measures. Beefing up the security on Azkaban, increasing auror recruitment a little. Nothing worth mention to the press. I'm sure that you had things like that in mind all along."

Fudge looked trapped. "Yes, yes of course."

"Perhaps any Death Eaters not in confinement should be called in," Michael added. "Protective custody for those who were under Imperius, and to be questioned about anyone they can identify that might have been recruited, where the Death Eaters used to lair... that sort of thing."

"Now, now, Harry," Fudge said, uneasily aware that the control of this conversation was now in the hands of a child. "That's far too extreme."

"Which is why you shouldn't do it," Michael told him in an understanding voice. "I suggest that you give the Head of the Wizengamot authority to oversee an investigation... you're far too busy to involve yourself directly in dealing with a mere imposter. I'm sure that with a few Aurors he could work wonders. Just give him blanket authority for the duration and no one can blame you if he has to do anything unpopular."

Now Dumbledore was looking surprised and Michael directed an amused look at him. "Do you have some parchment, Professor?" he asked politely. "I think the Minister needs to write something."

.oOo.

"I didn't think you trusted me, Hal," Dumbledore said quietly. "But you had Fudge grant me extraordinary authority."

Michael looked out of the window at the lake, the night sky reflected in its waters. "Think of it as a test," he said at last. "I don't believe that you're one of Voldemort's supporters, so I have at least some hopes that you'll use that authority to stop him. The test will be what you choose to do with it. Remember, Fudge can overturn it at any time - it's specifically set up so he can disown your actions when he gets pressured, which he shall, no doubt."

"What would you do?" the old wizard asked, his eyes lacking their characteristic twinkle.

"I'd have Malfoy and his cronies in cells long enough for any potions to wear off and then I'd dose them up with veritaserum and wring them dry," Michael said without hesitation. "I'd have their full confessions witnessed by a dozen of the most impartial observers I could arrange and then I'd have the guilty executed for treason. I'd go through Azkaban the same way and then I'd haul in everyone those confessions had implicated and start again."

"Oh Hal..." Dumbledore sighed. "Whatever made you so ruthless?"

Michael smiled thinly. "It's the only moral course of action, Professor. To finish the war before it can begin. To kill the core of Voldemort's organisation before they can recruit another generation to be their footsoldiers, before they can kill more innocents."

"They are still people, Hal," Dumbledore told him. "Most of them were students here, little different from you."

"And that's your tragic flaw," Michael told him, omitting any title. "You still see them as erring children and would spare them, even at the expense of the children they will victimise. You care more about redeeming those like Malfoy than you do for supporting those such as Neville." He turned away. "It's been a long day. I'm going to bed."

.oOo.

Professor Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk and buried his face behind his hands. He looked very old, very tired and deeply saddened to Michael, who had seated himself opposite the Headmaster without waiting for an invitation. The sign of weakness did not precisely please Michael, but there was at least the hope that the events of the last day might have jolted the old man out of his decade long nap.

After a long moment, Dumbledore sat back, folded his hands and opened his eyes once more, staring measuringly at Michael through his glasses. "It is time," he said slowly, "for me to tell you what I should have told you four years ago, Hal. I am going to tell you everything. I ask only a little patience. You will have your chance to rage at me - to do whatever you like - when I have finished. I will not stop you."

Michael folded his own hands solemnly and leant back in his own chair. He said nothing, but after a moment he flicked one hand as if to say: 'Well, get on with it.'

Dumbledore looked for a moment out of his window at something Michael could not see, then looked back at him. "Four years ago, you arrived at Hogwarts, Hal, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well - not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years."

Since he hadn't actually suffered through those ten dark and difficult years, and nothing that he could think of would make it that the real Harry had not, Michael said nothing, although Dumbledore paused to give him the chance to.

"You might ask - and with good reason - why it had to be so. Why could some wizarding family not have taken you in? Many would have done so more than gladly, would have been honoured and delighted to raise you as a son."

"My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive. You were in more danger than perhaps anyone but I realised. Voldemort had been vanquished hours before, but his supporters - and many of them are almost as terrible as he - were still at large, angry, desperate and violent."

Michael raised one finger and the old wizard halted. "They are still at large?" the boy asked. "This is why you objected to my holidays?"

"Yes," Dumbledore admitted simply. Michael grunted thoughtfully, his eyes darkened.

After a moment, Dumbledore realised that Michael did not intend to say anything. "At that point," he said, picking up the thread of his explanation, "I had to make a decision with regard to the years ahead. Did I believe that Voldemort was gone forever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty or fifty years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure, too, knowing him as I have done, that he would not rest until he killed you."

Michael blinked at that statement. He had seen Voldemort's hatred of him, and he could believe that Voldemort would not rest until he had avenged his humiliating defeat. But Dumbledore's tone implied more than the words said. More than revenge lay behind Voldemort's motives.

"I knew that Voldemort's knowledge of magic is perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive," Dumbledore said. "I knew that even my most complex and powerful protective spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he ever returned to full power. But I knew, too, where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated - to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a -"

"Rubbish," Michael said flatly. He placed his hands on the armrests of his chair as if about to rise to his feet. "Do you expect me to believe that Lily Potter was the only mother to die trying to protect her child? How many muggleborn witches did he kill? How many half-blood infants did he slaughter?"

"Far more than I care to remember," Dumbledore said sadly. "But there was nothing passive about the protection she used, Hal. Your mother was an exceptional witch and she drew on ancient and all but forgotten magics, blood magics, when she knew that your father had not been able to hold Voldemort back. Only a few wizards and witches have ever been able to master such magic and Voldemort was unprepared for it. When he killed Lily he unsuspectingly met the conditions she had set, in taking her life he had irrevocably sealed his own fate."

Michael thought about that for a moment. Then he nodded and relaxed his hand's grip.

Dumbledore smiled placatingly but the smile faded as he saw the green eyes fixed on him narrow in suspicion. "Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you. While you could still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you could not be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You needed to return there only once a year, but as long as you could still have called it home, whilst you were there he could not hurt you. Your aunt knew this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knew that allowing you to stay may well have kept you alive for ten years."

There was a snort from Michael. "While I could call it home?" he asked incredulously. "At least you don't pretend that I had to _want_ to call it home. You admit yourself you know full well I had ample reason to leave the instant that I had an alternative. Aye, and to never return!"

"Four years ago, then," continued Dumbledore, as though he had not been interrupted in his story, "you arrived at Hogwarts, neither as carefree nor as well-nourished as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well."

"And then... well, you will remember the events of your first year at Hogwarts quite as clearly as I do. You rose magnificently to the challenge that faced you and sooner - much sooner - than I had anticipated, you found yourself face to face with Voldemort. You survived again. You did more. You delayed his return to full power and strength. You fought a man's fight, demonstrated intelligence and independence beyond your years. I was... prouder of you than I can say."

"Yet there was a flaw in this wonderful plan of mine," said Dumbledore. "An obvious flaw that I knew, even then, might be the undoing of it all. And yet, knowing how important it was that my plan should succeed, I told myself that I would not permit this flaw to ruin it. I alone could prevent this, so I alone must be strong. And here was my first test, as you lay in the hospital wing, weak from your struggle with Voldemort."

"Test?" Michael asked thoughtfully.

"Don't you remember asking me, as you lay in the hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you when you were a baby?"

Michael frowned. "Yeah," he replied. "I remember."

"Ought I to have told you then?"

Green eyes met blue eyes levelly. "Yes. You should have."

"Well, as you know, I decided not to answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too young to know."

Michael muffled a groan. I was fourteen! he thought, but grudgingly admitted that he could hardly fault Dumbledore for not known something that he himself had tried so hard to conceal.

Dumbledore shot him a puzzled look, but continued. "I had never intended to tell you when you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at such a young age. I should have recognised the danger signs then. I should have asked myself why I did not feel more disturbed that you had already asked me the question to which I knew, one day, I must give a terrible answer. I should have recognised that I was too happy to think that I did not have to do it on that particular day... you were too young, much too young."

"And so we entered your second year at Hogwarts. And once again you met challenges even grown wizards have never faced; once again you acquitted yourself beyond my wildest dreams. You did not ask me again, however, why Voldemort had left that mark on you. We discussed your scar, oh yes... we came very, very close to the subject. Why did I not tell you everything? Well, it seemed to me that twelve was, after all, hardly better than eleven to receive such information. I allowed you to leave my presence, bloodstained, exhausted but exhilarated, and if I felt a twinge of unease that I ought, perhaps, to have told you then, it was swiftly silenced. You were still so young, you see, and I could not find it in myself to spoil that night of triumph..."

"Do you see, Harry? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."

Michael closed his eyes. "You bought into it," he sighed. "The plucky kid solving the mysteries and daring the dangers that the adults couldn't or wouldn't. And you couldn't bear to taint that little homily with the harsh cold reality that no one lives happily ever after." Then his eyes snapped open and emerald eyes smouldered. "You are stretching my credulousness, not to mention my patience," he added in a far colder voice. "You are chief of the Wizengamot, you have battled dark wizards for a good part of the last half-century and you think I'm going to believe that you let a little sentimentality get in the way? I wasn't born yesterday, Professor."

"I wanted to save you more pain than you had already suffered," Dumbledore insisted. "I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act. I have watched you more closely than you can have imagined and I find that I care about you too much."

"Enough to risk the life of a little girl?" Michael asked sarcastically. "Enough to throw an innocent into the mess that the Tournament had become, risking her life – and don't try to pretend that you could guarantee her safety – King Chaos ruled that day, and you had to know that it would. Enough to blackmail and threaten me into risking my life in an insane game?"

"Without your magic, Hal, you would swiftly die, even if that was all you suffered for defying the Goblet. Believe me when I say that you could not have survived the last few years without it and I have no reason to expect the following years to be any better. Your suggestion for breaking the contract was ingenious, but if it failed, as it might well have done, then not only you, but all three of the other Champions would have suffered the consequences. I believed that your best chance of survival was to participate, whether you won or lost. And I rather think that you could have won, were you to have actually sought the prize."

Michael glared.

"I concede that the means I chose were not the best, Hal. I have made more mistakes than I care to remember. But all of them stem from just one thing: I have watched you struggling under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school and I could not bring myself to add another - the greatest one of all."

Michael waited, but Dumbledore did not speak. At length the boy let out a frustrated growl. "You can't imagine I'll let you get away with only telling me that much, can you?"

"Hope springs eternal, Hal," Dumbledore said wearily. "But you are correct of course. Even if I could deny you the truth any longer, I have no right to. Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child because of a prophecy made shortly before your birth. He knew the prophecy had been made, though he did not know its full contents. He set out to kill you when you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the terms of the prophecy. He discovered, to his cost, that he was mistaken, when the curse intended to kill you backfired. And so, since his return to his body, and particularly since your extraordinary escape from him last year, he has been determined to hear that prophecy in its entirety. This is the weapon he has been seeking so assiduously since his return: the knowledge of how to destroy you."

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked past Michael to the black cabinet that stood beside Fawkes's perch. He bent down, slid back a catch and took from inside it a shallow stone basin, carved with runes around the edges. Dumbledore walked back to the desk, placed the Pensieve upon it, and raised his wand to his own temple. From it, he withdrew silvery, gossamer-fine strands of thought clinging to the wand and deposited them into the basin. He sat back down behind his desk and watched his thoughts swirl and drift inside the Pensieve for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he raised his wand and prodded the silvery substance with its tip.

A figure rose out of it, draped in shawls, her eyes magnified to enormous size behind her glasses, and she revolved slowly, her feet in the basin. After a moment, Michael recognised Professor Trelawney. The Divination professor was not often seen outside of her tower and only Ron's descriptions let him match occasional glances to her name and this image. Her voice was harsh and hoarse as she declaimed:

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

The image of Professor Trelawney faded back into the silvery liquid of the Penseive, but neither wizard watched.

For a moment, Michael struggled with his anger. Silence filled the room as Dumbledore watched him patiently. Finally, Michael shook his head and turned away. "Well, gee whiz," he said in an overly bright and childlike tone. "I guess I'm just going to have to place myself blindly into your hands in case the naughty wizard comes after me." He paused. "Enough stalling, old man. There's nothing in that prophecy that we haven't all known for years. What's your real reason?"

"Hal, please think about this. You are the only person who has a chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good. The only one. Voldemort himself marked you as his equal, gave you powers, and a future."

Michael threw back his head and laughed. He couldn't help himself. "You old fool," he said almost fondly. "Perhaps you really are sincere. Don't you see that this changes nothing? Of course Voldemort wants me dead. What does it matter if it's for a prophecy or for revenge? And of course I'll fight him – haven't I fought you for years to keep my life my own? Why would I bow to him? And yes, one of us will die. That happens in war. This prophecy is utterly worthless now. Any idiot could draw the same conclusions."

.oOo.

"You've picked the losing side, Potter!" Malfoy sneered. "I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!" The pureblooded bigot jerked his head at Ron and Hermione and Michael's temper began the final countdown. "Too late now. Potter! They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well -"

Michael's temper exploded but it did so icily. "Perhaps you're right," he said softly and the rest of the compartment went deathly silent as everyone looked at him in shocked disbelief. "Perhaps I have picked the wrong side and you picked the winning one. Perhaps Voldemort will sweep all before him and purge the world. But if that's the case, Draco Malfoy, then I guess I have no choice," he said and the compartment windows exploded as his magic erupted around him, scattering glass from the door into the corridor and from the outside windows onto the train tracks. "But. To. Kill. You. All." His wand was aimed at Draco's forehead and a fierce green glow was coming from the tip.

Malfoy had gone completely white and an acrid smell filled the compartment as the front of his robes darkened visibly.

Then Michael smiled and the magic died away. "But on the other hand, with a scurrying little ferret, who can't even say his name, as the bright light of the next generation of his followers… Thomas Marvolo Riddle isn't looking all that frightening, now is he?"

.oOo.

"Theory is all very well," Michael grunted, raising his hand casually. "But if there's no practical experience then it's very little use in the real world."

Umbridge looked at him. "This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," she told him.

"You're supposed to be preparing us for the real world," Michael snorted.

"There is nothing out there that you need to be prepared for, Mr. Potter."

Michael choked. "You _what_?" he said incredulously. "Have dragons, boggarts, hobgoblins all disappeared? Has all the bigotry, prejudice and dark magic that goes into the regularly scheduled Dark Lord uprisings simply dissipated? Have the Goblins all vanished? Because I don't recall seeing any of that in the Daily Prophet."

"Who do you imagine want's to attack children like yourselves?" Umbridge enquired in a honeyed voice.

"Imagine?" Michael snorted. "Let's just go on my personal experience, shall we? Age of one, Voldemort -"

Terry gasped, Padma shrieked and Antony fell off his chair in response to the word. Umbridge, however, didn't flinch, earning herself a little credit in Michael's eyes. Instead she simply said: "Ten points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Potter."

"Whatever. As I was saying, Voldemort blows up my house, kills my parents and uses the Killing Curse on me. Age eleven, one of your predecessors tries to steal the Philosopher's Stone - over my dead body, to boot. Age twelve – basilisk, possessed house-mate. Age thirteen – Dementors, Death-Eater with complete access to Hogwarts. Age fourteen – illegally entered and forced to compete into a hazardous magical contest by a Ministry official and the Supreme Mugwump respectively. Faced with a Dragon, a horde of merfolk and some Dark Lord wannabe who claims, perhaps falsely, to be Voldemort." He shook his head. "No… nothing there that I might need to defend myself against."

"Let me make a few things quite plain," Umbridge hissed, everyone in the room looking at the Professor or Michael. She stood up and leant forwards, resting her weight upon the desk. "You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead -"

"What Dark Wizard?" Michael asked breezily. "And who said he was back from the dead?"

"Mr-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," Umbridge said in a single breath. "As I was saying," she continued. "You have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie."

She looked at Michael, who met her gaze steadily, a slight smile on his lips. The woman's eyes narrowed. "The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners'."

Michael casually put his feet up on his desk, closed 'Basics for Beginners' and shifted his feet slightly so that the book was beneath his legs. Then, quite casually, he opened his bag and pulled out a second book, this one

.oOo.

"You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or defend yourself in any other way you can think of," said Snape.

"Defend against…?" Michael asked, eyeing Snape suspiciously.

"I am about to attempt to break into your mind," said Snape menacingly. 'We are going to see how well you resist. I have been told that you have already shown aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse. You will find that similar powers are needed for this... brace yourself, now. Legili-!"

"Ignis!" Michael snapped and fire began to spread across the papers stacked on the desk.

Snape flicked his wand to extinguish the flames and then scowled at Michael, "What was that in aid of, Potter?"

"Defending myself in any other way I can think of," Michael replied coldly.

.oOo.

"How is it, Hal," Dumbledore frowned, "that you have a record of every point taken or awarded and every detention assigned, to any student in all the time that you have been a student at Hogwarts."

"I copied the records that you keep in your office, Headmaster," Michael replied blandly. "And update them regularly."

"Students are not allowed access to disciplinary records," Professor McGonagall objected.

Michael nodded. "Unless, and I quote from the sixteenth century Regulation of Hogwarts, which is still the standing body of rules within the school: '- by the permission of the Headmaster or other competent member of staff as appointed by the Board of Governors, a circumstantial waiver is granted.' There's a little more to it," he added. "But basically it comes down any waivers granted must be considered to be a waiver for any repetition of circumstance unless declared to be an extraordinary waiver."

"And do you have such a waiver, Hal?" Dumbledore asked. "I would surely remember."

"I believe that parents of students have automatic access to the records, Headmaster."

"You are not a parent, Hal – certainly not of a student here, hah ha," Fudge pointed out.

Michael gave him an unamused look. "In the absence of a competent parent, the Head of a Family is entitled to that access. You may note that as the last living Potter, I am by law and self-evident fact, the Head of my Family. And by precedent dating back to only the 1960s in the most recent case, should the Head of a Family be a student, the rules apply to them as the Head of a Family rather than as a student – in other words, their right to see the records takes precedence over the rule that students are not allowed to. As such I have full access and you have no legal right to deny me unless you change those rules – which would require the Board of Governors to enact and I don't believe they are likely to agree to a revision for such petty reasons."

Fudge sniffed. "I'm the Minister of Magic," he declared. "I'll issue a Ministerial Decree to that effect. It's ridiculous for a student to be able to see records of other student's disciplinary treatment."

Michael smiled. "You're quite free to do so, Minister," he said, using the title for the first time. "But issuing such a decree would contravene a major legal agreement – and could be interpreted as repudiating that document entirely. Which would also lead to no less that thirty-seven major treaties being voided, since one of the two signatories to them would no longer legally exist. You do realise that the Minstry's right to tax, govern and in fact exist at all is based entirely upon your agreement not to interfere with the running of Hogwarts?"

"But…" Fudge was confused. Whose side was Potter on? First he savaged Dumbledore politically, then he turned around and started protecting the old man.

.oOo.

Fudge paled. "You're a monster!" he exclaimed.

"Yes Cornelius," Michael said gently. "For it is monstrous for the strong to prey upon the weak, and yet that is the only role for the strong within the world that you govern. And I am, much to my surprise, extraordinarily strong."

.oOo.

Michael stared at the other boy. He was… he was…

He was taller than Michael, and perhaps a year or two older, wearing a worn looking track-suit and glasses. It had been years since Michael had seen the face reflected to him in the Mirror of Erised and it had changed and aged into expressions alien to him but…

"You're me!" exclaimed the boy.

"You're Harry!" Michael replied, understanding suddenly. He clenched his fists and restrained himself from clobbering the son of James and Lily Potter, standing before him in Michael's own body. Somehow, demanding that he be given his life back didn't seem like it would work.

Harry blinked. "Then… then you must be Michael."

There was a shrill cackle from behind the pair and Michael turned to see Voldemort's face, grafted somehow upon the body of a green serpent, peering at them both. "The Boy-Who-Lived," the Dark Lord sneered. "At long last."

.oOo.

Harry glared at Michael.

Blazing blue eyes met steady green.

"There can be only one!"

…

And then there was.

.oOo.

"Have a good summer, Hal," Dumbledore said.

"Oh?" asked Michael. "No attempts to drag me off somewhere safe?"

"No," the old wizard told him. "I shall merely trust that I'll see you next September."

Albus Dumbledore didn't see Hal Potter return to Hogwarts however. He passed away quietly in his sleep one night at the end of July, his wand broken between his hands. Some whispered that with his last great enemy defeated, he had chosen willingly to destroy it, knowing that the shock would result in his embarking on his great adventure.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, never returned to Hogwarts for his Sixth Year.

After leaving Dumbledore's office, no one – not even his best friends - had ever seen him again. Many suggested foul play, linking his disappearance to the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Even the painting of Albus Dumbledore, taking pride of place in the office of Headmistress McGonagall, could shed no light on the subject. The painting never linked the face that it had seen in a mirror during Hal Potter's first year with the face of the Defence teacher who finally broke Voldemort's curse upon the subject.

Then again, the man was always smirking when he looked at the portrait, as if he had scored some obscure point.


End file.
